


In Foreign Lands

by indoorbutch



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Dirty Talk, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Threesome - F/F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27741061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indoorbutch/pseuds/indoorbutch
Summary: For Therese’s twenty sixth birthday, Carol takes her to Paris. There, they meet a woman from Carol's past.
Relationships: Carol Aird/Original Female Character(s), Carol Aird/Therese Belivet, Carol/Therese/Original Female Character
Comments: 181
Kudos: 207





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic includes an original character named Fernanda who first appears in my story "Would You?". Part I of "Would You" is in my fic Alterations. You can find it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27110296/chapters/66268462#workskin
> 
> Parts II and III of "Would You" are here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27649910/chapters/67656395
> 
> Fernanda doesn't show up until Part III of "Would You," but the other parts are necessary to understand that fic, if you're interested.

For Therese’s twenty sixth birthday, Carol takes her to Paris.

They’ve traveled before, of course. All over the United States: beaches in Florida and skiing in Colorado and road tripping the West Coast. They’ve been to Mexico, and Canada. In 1953 they spent a particularly incredible week in Montreal, which is where Therese first learned that Carol spoke fluent French. Just the memory of Carol murmuring it to her as they made love always turns Therese shivery.

But they’ve never left the continent together. It was never possible to get that much time off work. Now, with things as settled as they’ve ever been, the trip to Europe they’ve always talked about is really happening. Therese is nervous and excited and overwhelmed, the weeks leading up to their trip a rollercoaster of to-dos. Getting her passport. Rescheduling all the private photo sessions she’d booked for those two weeks in June. Buying a few new wardrobe pieces because, as she tells Carol, “I’m not going to embarrass you in front of the French.”

“Darling, Paris will love you,” Carol tells her. Nevertheless, when she sees the things that Therese has bought, she looks distinctly pleased. “Don’t overpack your suitcases, dear,” she cautions. “We’ll probably do a lot of shopping while we’re there. I intend to spoil you.”

“Keep this up and we won’t need clothes at all,” Therese retorts primly. “I won’t let you out of the hotel room.”

Carol’s answering grin is full of anticipation.

They leave New York at 6 a.m. and arrive in Paris at 8 in the evening. By the time they’ve gotten their luggage and a taxi, Therese is exhausted, but she still spends the entire drive staring out the window at the lights of the city, her heart in her throat, amazed. Her amazement only skyrockets when they pull up to the George V. She looks at Carol, wide-eyed. Carol is smiling.

“You didn’t think I’d book us into some flea bag motel, did you, Darling?”

Therese chuckles, thinking of Waterloo, and gives her a quick, flirtatious look.

“I rather like fleabags motels.” 

Carol smirks as the driver puts the taxi in park and steps out to get the door. She pays him, and already there are bellhops there to assist them with their bags, and then—then, they are going up the stairs into the most gorgeous and decadent hotel Therese has ever seen. If her camera weren’t packed away, she’s not sure she’d be able to stop herself from taking pictures of everything. Which, she realizes ruefully, would at once advertise to the hotel that she is not its usual brand of guest—if that isn’t already abundantly clear.

In the years that she and Carol have been together, Therese has gotten gradually used to a different kind of life from any she could have imagined growing up. She doesn’t think she will ever fit in, or want to fit in, to the high society in which Carol was born and bred. But after all this time, she’s used to their expensive Madison Avenue apartment. She’s used to the fine restaurants Carol likes to take her to. She’s used to buying nicer clothes and nicer things, altogether. It helps that these days, she brings in a decent portion of their income from her own work, whether it be photography commissions or the occasional small showing at a local gallery. She could never fund their lifestyle on her own, but at twenty six, she no longer stands behind Carol, as it were. They are always side by side.

The George V nearly transports her back in time. She’s reminded of the Drake Hotel in Chicago; how spectacular it was and how plain and out of place she felt…

Carol’s hand touches her elbow. Carol’s words are in her ear.

“Breathe, Therese. You belong right where you are.”

And cautiously, hopefully, Therese tries to believe her.

The next shock comes when they reach their room, a gorgeous suite on the eighth floor, with a balcony that looks out at—she nearly chokes—the Eiffel Tower. She’s so stunned that she hardly notices anything else around her until Carol has tipped the bellhop and the door has closed after him. Then, Carol is standing behind her, wrapping her in her arms. Therese can instantly feel a tension in her, a thread of anxiety.

“Darling, is it all right?” she asks. “Is it too much? I know it’s extravagant but I just… I wanted you to have the best, of everything, and if you don’t like it then—”

Therese turns in her arms, takes her face in her hands, kisses her slow and deep til the tension drains from her body and she is murmuring with pleasure, obviously relieved. Therese pulls back, beaming up at her.

“It’s perfect. I can’t believe you did this for me. Carol, it’s—”

But her words cut off when, in finally pausing to take in the room itself, her eyes land on the massive King-sized bed against the wall. Therese blinks, then looks at Carol again, confused.

“One bed?” she asks.

Carol’s smile spreads, slow, lascivious. “Why, of course.”

“But what—what will they think? The hotelier? The… staff?”

“What they think is that I am a woman who can afford to stay for two weeks at the George V,” replies Carol, a bit imperiously. Then, with a quick kiss to Therese’s nose. “I think you’ll find, Dearest, that the French are a little more permissive than Americans. I’m not saying we can flaunt ourselves here. But I am perfectly determined to spend every night in that fantastic looking bed. With you.”

Therese’s whole body warms with delight and joy. She reaches up and kisses Carol again. Then, with a smirk, she runs to the bed, leaping into the center of it with Carol’s laughter ringing in her ears. The mattress is divine. She rolls over onto her back and braces herself on her elbows, looking at Carol. Carol, who stands with the open balcony behind her, with the Eiffel Tower and the glittering city in her wake, and she puts it all to shame. Even after the day they’ve had, her beloved is too gorgeous for words.

“If I weren’t so tired…” says Therese lowly.

Carol laughs again, moving toward her and climbing onto the bed. They each roll onto their sides, facing each other, and Carol puts a hand on Therese’s hip, looking at her with undisguised adoration. She leans forward, kissing her gently.

“I dreamed of this,” she says.

Therese pinks, looking shyly aside. “You did?”

“Yes. Even before I knew you, I dreamed about this.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I came here with Harge, I was already falling out of love with him. I resented being in the city of love—without love. I dreamed that someday I would get to do it all over again, the right way—with the right person.”

Therese smiles lovingly at her, and then her tongue pokes between her teeth. “As I recall, you did _find_ love, when you came here with Harge.”

Carol snorts. “I knew you’d bring that up, you little vixen. I found _sex_ while I was here with Harge. Not love.” 

But Therese isn’t done teasing her. She scoots her body closer, so that they are aligned from thighs to breasts. She nuzzles at Carol’s throat.

“And what do you suppose happened to the mysterious Fernanda? Brazilian beauty. Seducer of innocent Americans.”

Carol laughs brightly, cupping the back of Therese’s head. She says, “Well, I haven’t spoken to her in almost ten years. I did hear that her husband died in ’53. I wouldn’t be surprised if she took his fortune back to Brazil. Or relocated to Portugal—she talked of doing that. Who knows? Perhaps wherever she goes she finds other impressionable young women to seduce with her wiles. I sincerely doubt I was her first or last.”

Therese sets her teeth against Carol’s collarbone, nibbling. “Probably her best, though,” she supposes.

Carol arches against the bite, tightens her hand in Therese’s hair.

“I thought you were exhausted?”

Therese lifts up, catches her mouth, kisses her deep and with clear intent. Whispers against her lips just before she rolls on top of her, “Blame it on the city of love.” 

<><><>

Therese spends the first week in an exploratory fever. Carol wants nothing but to indulge her. They walk all over the city, wandering from tourist traps to lesser known neighborhoods, eating in fine restaurants and back alley cafés. When Carol came here with Harge, it was just a year after the War ended, and a lot has changed in the interim. But so much is the same, including many of the places she remembers most fondly. In delight she takes Therese to little bookshops and art galleries and bakeries and boutiques. They picnic in parks and along the Seine. Therese uses up so much film in the first few days that Carol jokes they should have budgeted for photography.

“It’s wretched knowing I won’t be able to develop them until we get back home,” Therese declares.

“You could always have someone develop them here,” Carol says in amusement.

Therese gives her a scandalized look. To Therese, the dark room is as holy as a church, and the developing of pictures is an exercise in religious devotion. Carol only smirks, bowing her head.

“Forgive me, Darling. What _was_ I thinking?”

They’re sitting on a bench with a view of the Eiffel Tower. It’s warm but not uncomfortably so, and the sky is a vibrant blue. She feels Therese’s foot, nudging briefly at her ankle.

“I suppose I can forgive it this once,” she says, moving her foot away, staring straight ahead.

Carol regards her in profile. Therese at twenty six is proof that every year only improves upon her. God, what a menace she’ll be by the time she’s thirty five. In her simple skirt and short-sleeved sweater, dark hair bobbed, face as exquisite as a porcelain doll, she is an even more attractive Audrey Hepburn, and has a distinctly Parisian look. All over the city, people have assumed that she is a native, shopkeepers speaking to her in rapid French that is always just a little beyond her (though she has been improving on the language, since they went to Montreal). Therese always responds to these moments with wide eyes, before Carol swoops in to rescue them.

 _‘They must despise me for a tourist,’_ Therese said yesterday as they left a chocolatier. She looked glum, and insisted. _‘I_ do _practice. I just get muddled up when they speak so quickly.’_

Carol said, _‘Darling, I don’t think anyone who has met you on this trip despises you. That shopkeeper was enamored of you. He threw in two extras of the chocolates you liked!’_

Unaffected, Therese said, _‘I am going to practice more.’_

_‘We’ll only be here another week. Do you plan to continue speaking French on Madison Avenue?’_

At which Therese’s frown dissolved into a smile, and, casting her a little sidelong look, she said, _‘I’m sure we can find uses for it.’_

Returning to the present, Carol moves her own foot gently against Therese’s, and sees her lover’s pleased little smile. 

The days are glorious. The nights are more so. They stay up late, talking and making love. In the mornings they sleep past ten, and then start their adventures all over. On Friday, Carol says she can’t possibly walk anymore. Why don’t they rent a car and drive out to the country? Which they do, getting lost in back roads and stopping in a village to eat lunch at a little restaurant run by a widow named Madame Bisset, whose son lives in Paris and studies, of all things, photography. She and Therese get along famously, the older woman endlessly patient with Therese’s halting French. Carol suspects that Madame Bisset would like very much to match Therese up with her unmarried son, and Therese takes these hints demurely, with one or two little glances at an equally amused Carol. Back in the car, Therese slides a hand across the seat, squeezing Carol’s knee, and then they’re back on the road again.

They return to the George V at eight, ordering room service. With their meals comes a telegram for Carol. She thinks it must be from Harge or Abby, until she opens the piece of paper:

_Meu bem Carol,_

_Imagine! You come all the way to Paris and do not even tell me about it! But I am very clever, you see, and have spies all over this city! I hear you are in company with a beautiful girl who takes photographs wherever she goes. No longer encumbered by your husband, I see? Yes, neither am I. Isn’t it marvelous?_

_Perhaps you wish to leave the past in the past, Carinho, especially given your lovely photographer. But I still think fondly of the friendship we struck up all those years ago, and it would be my joy to see that friendship rekindled again, an innocent friendship, between women who have seen much and endured much and now, I hope, can tell each other all the joy they have found._

_I am throwing a party tomorrow, Saturday. I still keep the old apartment—can you believe it? Anyway, it will just be close friends and, if your companion is interested, a few new ones! Do come and see me, won’t you? 8 o’clock. I hope you will say yes!_

_with fond memories,_

_Fernanda_

Carol stares at the letter for several minutes, re-reading it twice. It’s written in English, and she can’t help thinking that Fernanda did this as a courtesy to Therese, who for all she knows speaks not a word of French. This is the kind of subtle kindness that Fernanda showed Carol, from the beginning of their acquaintance, and Carol feels totally unexpected tears come to her eyes. Tears of joy, because the letter says that Fernanda is happy, and Carol is happy, too, and the thought of seeing the older woman again gives her a warm and wonderful feeling. But what will Therese think?

“Carol?” Therese asks, looking at her curiously. “What is it? It’s not from Harge?”

“No, Angel. No. It’s—well, here. You might as well read it.”

She hands the letter over. She reaches for her glass of wine, sipping, and watching from the corner of her eye as Therese reads. Carol’s heart is hammering; she wonders if she has just opened herself up to a completely unanticipated disruption to their happiness. When she first told Therese about Fernanda, years ago, her lover showed no sign of jealousy—seemed only intrigued and, frankly, aroused by Carol’s one-night fling and first time affair with a beautiful foreign woman. But hearing about it as a distant story, completely detached from their lives in New York, is very different from the prospect of meeting Carol’s first lover face to face.

Therese must read it more than once, as well. Finally, she looks up, her eyes a little wide.

“She’s still in Paris?”

“So it would seem,” Carol says, impassive, drinking again.

Therese makes a considering sound and lifts her own glass to drink. Then she asks, “Do you want to go?”

Carol’s voice remains calm, even casual. “Not if you don’t care for it, Dear.”

Therese raises an eyebrow, “Not care for it? A party at the home of a woman I’ve wondered about for years? You really expect me to give that up?”

Carol swallows, some of her cool evaporating. “Well… I mean… it wouldn’t make you uncomfortable?”

Therese starts to smile, amused and fond. She reaches across the table and takes Carol’s hand, rubbing her thumb over her wrist.

“I don’t get the impression from that letter that she’s plotting anything. She mentions me, and seems to realize that we are… what we are. You always said she was so kind, so generous and clever and interesting. I think it’d be just wonderful to meet her.”

For some reason, Therese’s ease with the whole idea makes Carol anxious. Where before she worried how such a meeting might unsettle Therese, now that she knows it won’t, she must contemplate a new question: does she want her first female lover to meet the love of her life? And vice versa? Is she quite… prepared for that?

Therese frowns, says, “Carol, if you don’t want to go, we don’t have to.”

“No, no, it just—well, she… It was such a long time ago. And I wouldn’t want anything to…” she trails off, not sure what she’s trying to say.

Therese stands up, coming around the table to stand in front of her and taking her face in her hands. Her smile is deep, all dimples, and when she bends to kiss Carol, Carol kisses back, relieved. She puts her hands on Therese’s waist, wanting suddenly to be close to her, to _feel_ her. To remember that _nothing_ can tear them apart.

When Therese pulls back, she’s looking at her with a fiendish little smirk. “I want to meet her,” she says, “I want to hear about Carol at twenty five.”

Carol scoffs. “Abby has told you plenty of stories.”

Therese shrugs, “Maybe. But you did say you wanted to spoil me, this trip. So what do you say? Can I meet the famous Fernanda?”

And as she asks one of her fingers is gently stroking the curve of Carol’s ear, and her body is shuffling closer, between Carol’s knees, and her other hand is running under the collar of Carol’s dress, massaging the back of her neck. All while those pretty lips go on smiling, angelic. Carol is helpless.

“All right,” she says. “I’ll telegram our response.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fernanda's party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There seems to be some anxiety over whether or not Fernanda will try to come between Carol and Therese. I know how protective we all are of these two women, and their love. So please be assured, Fernanda is no threat to them, and at the end of the day, their perpetual sunrise will continue, undimmed.

Madame Fernanda Beaulieu née Quiroga lives in an apartment overlooking the Seine. Her building is old and gorgeous, renovated, Carol explains, after significant damage during the War. Fernanda has a suite of five rooms on the top floor, including a kitchen, a dining room, and a salon, all maintained by a staff of four, which includes her chef, lady’s maid, and—

Therese shakes herself. Why is she reciting the details in her head as if it does anything except make her unbelievably nervous? The fact that Madame Beaulieu’s lifestyle is not even particularly extravagant by the standards of the wealthy French does not actually reassure Therese, who is wondering if her dress is fine enough, her makeup sufficiently sophisticated. Carol, of course, looks like a goddess. This might have only added to Therese’s feeling of inadequacy, except that Carol is nervous, too.

They exit the elevator, entering a landing in front of Fernanda’s door, and with no one else in sight Therese reaches over and tugs on Carol’s pinky finger. Carol jumps, startled, and then smiles at her.

“You look beautiful, Angel. Absolutely breathtaking.”

Therese smiles back, tells her, “There’s no need to be nervous.”

As if she herself isn’t a wreck. Carol nods, clearly bracing herself, and then knocks on the door.

It opens within seconds. Therese expects to see one of the staff. She is completely unprepared for what she gets instead.

When Carol first told Therese about Fernanda, she referenced similarities between her and Therese. And indeed, the woman before her is no more than an inch taller than Therese is. Her figure is petite. Her hair is dark. That’s where the similarities end. Fernanda is a woman of forty, and she is one of the most beautiful women that Therese has ever laid eyes on. Her slim figure is nonetheless graced with fuller hips and larger breasts than Therese, creating an hour-glass of exquisite proportions. Her dark hair is long, braided, and coiled atop her head, shot through with silver threads that make of it a crown. Her skin is a gorgeous russet color, warm, and her eyes are large and dark as chocolate drops. When she sees them, her lips part in a wide smile of such open, unpretentious pleasure, that Therese feels as if she, too, is reuniting with an old and cherished friend.

“ _Carinho_?” Fernanda says, looking at Carol in astonishment. “Can it be you?”

“Fernanda,” Carol says, as if she, too, can’t believe it.

For a moment the two women look at each other, amazed, and then they flow into each other’s arms, an embrace as giddy and open as two schoolgirls, their voices ringing with delighted laughter. Therese, who is still rather thunderstruck by the beauty standing in front of her, can only watch, dumbfounded. But a moment later the embrace breaks, and Fernanda turns to her with the happiest of smiles.

“And you!” she exclaims, “You must be Therese! Do I pronounce it correctly? The French way?”

“Uh—yes.”

“ _Magnifique_!” 

And then Fernanda is hugging Therese, a warm embrace, and she smells of something rich and sweet, different from the spicy smell of Carol’s perfume—but just as arresting.

“Come in,” Fernanda says, “Both of you, come in! Oh, I am so happy that you came!”

Therese allows herself to be ushered into a large sitting room, and Fernanda calls out to the assembled crowd.

“My loves, my loves! Say hello to my old friend, Carol Ross. And to this charming creature, Therese Belivet!”

The room is a bit more populated than Therese was quite expecting, based on descriptions of ‘just close friends,’ yet there are calls of greeting and lifted glasses and friendliness from all. A servant comes to take their handbags. Another swoops in with champagne on a tray.

“Please, please,” Fernanda says. “Let us drink! To the reunion of old friends. And the forming of new ones!”

Therese swallows a mouthful of champagne eagerly, and then Fernanda is looking at Carol. They stare at each other for a moment, and then simultaneously reach for each other’s hands. Therese watches with bated breath, for she’s never seen two such beautiful women in one place. The way they look at each other, beam at each other—Therese thinks that if she did not understand, she would feel an instant surge of jealousy. Except she does understand. Now, more than she ever could have before. Theirs is a look shared by those for whom the spark of friendship lit like a firecracker amidst darkness, who found together that sweet and intimate affinity that only comes a few times in a life. And it doesn’t matter that they slept together. Even if they had not, they would be looking at each other like this. Full of joy.

“Sweet Carol,” says Fernanda. “Look how kind time has been to us! Therese,” she looks at her urgently. “You would not believe it, but we were such little girls when we knew each other. Not like you. No, I can see in your face: you are an old soul. Carol and I—we were young and foolish. Weren’t we, Carol?”

“Impossibly so,” Carol grins.

Therese doesn’t believe it for a second.

“And now, look at us!” Fernanda raises her glass. “Older, yes. But quite a bit happier, don’t you think? And this one—I think she keeps you young. Am I right, _Carinho_?”

Carol looks at Therese, and Therese is floored by the open adoration and pride in Carol’s eyes, that she so rarely allows others to see. That it is so rarely safe for others to see. But Carol’s eyes are shining, and she reaches across to take Therese’s hand. She looks into her eyes and says softly. “Yes. Yes, she does.”

Fernanda grins. Therese thinks there is something a little naughty in that grin, a glitter of understanding that appears to give the older woman nothing but delight.

“Yes, we should all have such women in our lives. Well, come along!” she says. “I must introduce you to _everybody_!”

They are led into the fray, Carol’s hand slipping from Therese’s, but only to touch the small of her back, a firm and comforting weight, as Fernanda begins to show them around.

Over the next hours, Therese meets dozens of people. She has heard stories about the snobbery of the French, but Fernanda’s friends are warm and jovial. And it soon becomes apparent that there are all kinds of people at this party, at least half of them expats. There are Americans and Scots and Spaniards. A Portuguese couple. A Ugandan painter. Writers. Musicians. When it comes out that Therese is a photographer, the artists in the room take her as one of their own, asking about her influences, her education, her work. She meets an African American woman who knows Berenice Abbott, who offers to get Therese in touch with her—an offer that leaves Therese tongue-tied and pale with nerves. And Carol meets an artisan whose family has been building furniture for three hundred years. Enraptured, Carol talks with him for almost an hour. Carol herself is an obvious hit, enchanting everyone with her cool wit and effortless elegance and, of course, her beauty.

Amidst it all, there is Fernanda, who flits among groups and shares in conversation and makes sure everyone has a drink, at all times. She is bright and cheerful and funny, and more than once Therese sees her with Carol, the two of them laughing in a way that Therese has only ever seen Carol laugh with Abby. It is a window into another Carol, a younger Carol, and Therese swallows the sight as thirstily as the champagne in her hand.

It’s while Carol is talking animatedly with the furniture artisan that Therese, feeling the most recent glass a little more than she expected, finds a chaise and sinks down to rest, just slightly outside the busiest circles of guests.

Almost instantly, Fernanda joins her. The older woman plops down beside her with an exaggerated scoff of exhaustion.

“Ah, _meu bem_ , you have the right idea! Is it getting very hot in here? I must rest my feet. Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes!” Therese smiles. “Your party is wonderful.”

“Thank you. I quite agree!” Fernanda grins. “You see, Therese, I have lived in Paris for twenty years. I was here through the War. I survived the collapse of the 4th Republic. I survived a husband! And now, I only want peace, and to surround myself with clever and interesting and beautiful people, like yourself. So I like my parties to be full of joy, and give people a respite from their lives. It is my greatest ambition. It is my art! Does that seem silly to you? You, after all, are a true artist.”

“Not at all!” Therese says. “I think it sounds… perfect. And I think you do it beautifully.”

For though Fernanda may not paint or write or sculpt, she is clearly an artist in her own right. Her home is like the most welcoming museum Therese could imagine, full of art and style. She herself is like a piece of art, her dress one of the most exquisite that Therese has ever seen. Therese remembers Carol telling her that she learned to dress from Fernanda, and Therese can believe it. Everything about this woman breathes vivacity and intelligence and an eye for beautiful things. Which quite explains her attraction to Carol, Therese thinks.

Fernanda smiles at her, a lovely, grateful smile.

“Thank you, Therese,” she says. “You being here makes it more beautiful. You and Carol. What a brief and vibrant friendship that was! You know, we wrote to each other for about a year afterwards, but then it all faded away, as those kinds of friendships do. And I was never sad about it, you see, because I knew that we must take the beautiful things in life and cherish them, even if it is only temporary. But even so, I admit—I worried about her.” Now Fernanda grows a little serious. She nods pensively, and looks into the crowd of her friends, to where Carol is talking with a few people. “Yes, I worried about her. That husband of hers,” she rolls her eyes theatrically, and Therese can’t restrain her chuckle of agreement. “Oh, he was so American, Therese! Everything business, business, business. Money, money, money. Even my husband found it tiresome. And do you know, his French was terrible. So garish. So _violent_ , how he said it, like an assault on the ears! Not like Carol, you know. That woman—her voice is like sin, don’t you think? And that’s exactly how you should sound when you speak French. Like you are making love to a beautiful woman.”

Therese feels heat come into her face, a shy embarrassment, because she is thinking of Carol whispering to her in French as they make love, and yes, Carol’s voice is sinful—in any language.

Fernanda narrows her eyes at her, and there’s something teasing and conspiratorial in it. She winks.

“But I don’t have to tell you any of that, do I, _Querida_? No, I see how you look at her. You know exactly what you have in that woman, don’t you?”

Therese would blush all over again, but it’s clear that Fernanda is not trying to embarrass her. And though she is not used to her relationship with Carol being spoken about so openly, the room is such a diverse mix of people, with several lesbians and gay men, and there is open affection, among everyone. It feels safe.

Therese says smilingly, “Yes, I know what I have. I know how lucky I am.”

Fernanda gives a short, approving nod, though her expression has grown serious again. She watches Carol for several moments, and Therese wonders what she can be thinking, until the older woman looks at her once more. Her beautiful dark eyes hold a sudden fierceness. “Did she suffer very much, for the divorce?”

Therese hesitates. She wasn’t expecting such a question, and she’s not one to share Carol’s business with other people. Carol has had quite enough, in her life, of others dissecting her actions and her past. Has had quite enough, of people nosing in on her business. But the way Fernanda asks it—she doesn’t sound like someone looking for gossip. She sounds like someone wanting to know how angry she should be, on behalf of her friend.

So Therese says, “Yes. She did suffer.”

A solemn tip of the head. A knowing question, “The child?”

Therese nods. “He took her away, for a while. He did other, horrible things to her.”

Fernanda’s nostrils flare, her eyes glittering with an unmistakable anger, that has the effect of making Therese like her more than she already does.

Therese adds, “But we share joint custody of Rindy now. And Harge generally leaves us alone.”

“Good,” Fernanda says, with a kind of grim victoriousness. “Good. Any man who takes a child from her loving mother—yes, she must have suffered. And you, too? For loving her?” 

Therese thinks in a flash of Chicago, of the Ritz—but also of Waterloo and the Oak Room and the Madison Avenue apartment: all the places that carry with them now the imprint of her and Carol’s love.

“There’s been more joy than suffering,” she says.

At that, the last of Fernanda’s seriousness melts away, and she is warm and happy again, her smile a gorgeous, open thing, the lines of age and laughter making her seem, somehow, untouchably young.

“You have no idea how glad that makes me, Therese. And yes, I can see that she is happy. When I opened my door tonight and saw her again—Oh! It was like seeing a dream come true. She is quite transformed. So free. So… herself, as she could never be before. So I must thank you, Therese. You made my dream for her come true. You are an angel; I can see that.”

Therese had thought she had her blushing under control, but there it goes again. The words touch her more than she can understand. Warmed by Fernanda’s honesty, she says, “I should thank you, too.”

The older woman looks at her quizzically. “Me?” she asks.

Therese nods. “Carol told me how miserable she was on that trip, before you befriended her. Carol has been… lonely, for so much of her life. Harge did what he could to keep her to himself, to separate her from other people. But that week, she found a friend in you, and you made her happy, even if it was only a few days. I’m grateful to you, for that gift.” Therese pauses. Then, with unexpected daring, “And she told me, of course… of your night together. That was a gift, too.”

Fernanda’s eyebrows hike up. She looks surprised, and instantly delighted. Her laugh rings out, and she says merrily, “Ah! so we are going to talk about _that_ , are we?”

Therese flushes scarlet, “Oh, I’m sorry, we don’t have to—”

“Nonsense, _Querida_! I’m glad. It should be like this between women, even women who have shared lovers. For all we have done is share love, yes? and love is the best thing to share. I’m glad you can speak about it. I was a little concerned, you know, that you would feel—well, threatened is not the right word, for I am clearly no threat. But, how shall I say it? Uncomfortable. Uncertain. I even feared Carol would not come, because of it.”

Therese, her embarrassment waning, smiles, “Well. She was a little nervous. But she’s always described you so fondly, and I wanted to meet you. And I don’t… suspect you of any, well, ulterior motive…” Therese trails off awkwardly, pinking again.

Fernanda grins at her. Therese’s hands are folded in her lap and Fernanda reaches over to lay her own hand on top of them. Her skin is warm, and soft, and with her leaning forward there comes another waft of the sweet and arresting perfume.

“No, my dear. Carol and I—it was friendship, it was comfort. It was never to be a great romance. Unlike you and her, am I correct?”

Therese looks toward Carol again, and, as if sensing it, Carol looks, too. Their eyes catch and hold for a long moment, and Therese’s heart soars at the little, playful smirk on Carol’s lips, before the moment breaks, and she faces Fernanda again.

“Yes,” she says. “A grand romance.”

Fernanda releases a delighted laugh. “ _Querida_ , look at you!” she cries. “Like a newlywed. I love to see it. No, you’ve nothing to fear from me. Not that I am immune mind you!” she grins again. Therese’s eyes widen. This time it’s Fernanda who looks over at Carol. Therese looks, and together they watch the beautiful woman tossing back her head, laughing, her neck a gorgeous arch, her face a picture of perfection. Fernanda says, “Your Carol is more beautiful than she ever was, Therese. And she was quite beautiful when I met her. Like a Hollywood starlet, but far more elegant. And now, look at her. Yes, you are very lucky indeed. If she weren’t so in love with you—well, let’s just say, I never was immune to a beautiful woman.” And then, Fernanda looks at Therese, looks directly into her eyes, and her own, large and dark, gleam with open appreciation. They flit down Therese’s figure, and back up to her face. “No… not immune at all.”

Therese drops her eyes, warmth flooding her cheeks. When she dares look up again, Fernanda has a little smile along the curve of her lovely mouth. Suddenly Therese experiences something that she has never experienced before: unanticipated, potent attraction—to a woman who isn’t Carol.

“And what are you two conspiring about?”

Startled, Therese looks up. Carol stands before them. Carol is smiling. And her smile is so much like Fernanda’s, warm, and flirtatious, and inviting, that Therese reaches for her glass of champagne, and finishes it off in one breathless swallow.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get smutty...

It’s nearly one o’clock by the time they get back to their room. Carol is tired, but she’s also happy. The night was better than she ever could have hoped, filled with good company, with laughter and conversation. Best of all, she knows that Therese had a good time, too. Her lover spent all night smiling and laughing and talking. Fernanda was a such a gracious host, and though Carol didn’t get as much chance to talk with her as she hoped, she was delighted to realize toward the end of the night that she had been especially kind and friendly to Therese. Any worry Carol might have had, that the two women might be awkward with each other, even jealous, has evaporated. In fact, from the way she found Therese blushing under Fernanda’s attention, Carol suspects that her young love is quite taken with the older woman. And vice versa.

It’s a tantalizing thought—which surprises Carol. Over the years, she’s had to endure the sight of men and women fawning over Therese, and has always hated it. Indeed, she can admit that she’s always been a little possessive, where Therese is concerned (something that Therese’s fierce independence has forced her to overcome—to both their advantage). Rather early on in their relationship, there was one interesting afternoon when Carol got so needlessly jealous over Therese’s friendship with Gen, that the whole thing ended in a terrible row—and a pretty spectacular fuck that left both of them exhausted and shaking and weak from pleasure.

In short, no, she does not like the idea of anyone looking at Therese, wanting Therese. So why does this feel so different? When she looked across the room and saw Therese and Fernanda together, saw the way that Fernanda smiled at Therese, with such open but unthreatening appreciation, Carol did not feel possessive or jealous. There was, instead, an unexpected eroticism, in knowing that her former lover finds her current lover attractive.

“You look very serious all of the sudden,” Therese remarks. She has just come out of the bathroom. She’s dressed in a nightgown Carol particularly likes, sleeveless, with a low neckline and a high hem that just skims the tops of her knees. Carol, already sat up in bed, blinks away her distracted thoughts, and smiles.

“Not at all, Dearest. Did you have a good time, tonight?”

Therese climbs into bed beside her, beaming. “Oh, yes.”

“What were you and Fernanda talking about?”

Therese grins, sticking her tongue between her teeth, playful. “We were talking about you and me—and our grand romance.”

Carol laughs, rolling onto her side. Therese rolls onto hers, so they face each other. Carol puts her hand on Therese’s hip, rubbing affectionately over the satiny fabric of her nightgown. 

“Oh, yes? What else?”

“She wanted to know how you are. She wanted to know that you’re all right. She cares about you, Carol. She’s no fan of Harge.”

Carol chuckles, “Yes, that seems to be a shared opinion among the women in my life.”

Even now that things are so much better, Abby frequently makes half-serious remarks about having Harge ‘disappeared.’ Whenever she does, Therese is conspicuously slow to chastise her.

Carol smooths her hand up and down Therese’s thigh, knowing it always upsets her lover to think about Harge and the pain he’s caused them.

“What else did you talk about?” Carol asks, to change the subject. 

Again, the tongue between the teeth. A look of mischief in those bewitching green eyes. “We talked about how beautiful you are.” Carol scoffs, surprised to find her cheeks growing warm. Therese leans forward, nuzzling her nose against Carol’s jaw. “We did. I think she still holds a torch for you, my love.”

“Oh, really?” Carol drawls, squeezing Therese’s thigh a little more firmly. “And here I thought that torch was pointing in a new direction.”

Therese pulls back. She’s still smiling, an easy smile, happy. She winds a curl of Carol’s hair around her finger, tugging gently. 

“Oh?” she says, all innocence.

Carol grins at her. “Yes. It may have been awhile since we were friends, but I know her, Therese. I know the way she looks at women she finds beautiful. She’s a little enamored of you, I think.”

“Enamored of _us_ , more like,” Therese says. “She was really so happy to know that we are happy. You mustn’t worry about her, Carol. I can tell she’s a flirt, but she has no bad intentions.”

Perhaps Therese is thinking of Carol’s reaction to Therese’s other admirers; perhaps she worries that Carol will get jealous or upset. Wishing to disabuse her, Carol kisses Therese, slow and gentle and without a hint of anxiety.

Then, in a low, rough voice, “And you, my Darling? Were you enamored of her, at all?”

Therese pulls back again, looks at her, surprised and considering. For a split second Carol panics, thinks that Therese will misunderstand the words, read in them an accusation—but then Therese smiles coyly.

“Were _you_?” she asks.

Heat sparks in Carol’s belly. A flirtatious Therese has always been one of her greatest weaknesses. It’s so late, and yet, all at once, she can’t bear the thought of sleeping. Her hand on Therese’s hip slides around, grasping her ass and tugging her close. Therese throws a thigh over her hip, their pelvises and breasts pressing together, their lips meeting in a slow, hungry kiss.

“Tell me what you like about her,” Carol whispers against her lips, nudging them apart, flicking her tongue inside.

Therese shivers. Her eyes have slid closed. After a few more slow kisses, she mumbles, “I… I thought she was kind. Intelligent, too. Clever. She seemed like someone whose life is full of joy.”

Carol smirks at this innocent response, says, “Yes, of course. She was always like that. But what else, my love? What else did you like?” Therese hesitates, and Carol leans in again, kissing the corner of her mouth, then moving down, to nibble at her throat. “She’s very beautiful, don’t you think? Those eyes. That skin. Her dress was remarkable. Very alluring.”

Carol mouths at the hinge of her jaw, and Therese murmurs with pleasure. Says, “Yes, she… she’s very beautiful. Her… her figure was—”

She cuts off, clearly uncertain, shy. With her leg slung over Carol’s, the nightgown has ridden up her thigh, and Carol takes advantage of this, sliding her hand under the fabric and up. Gooseflesh erupts under her fingertips. Carol coaxes, “Yes? What about her figure, Dearest?”

“It was—she is—quite lovely, isn’t she? You said her body was like mine but it’s not. Her hips… her… her breasts—they’re more like yours.”

Carol’s breathing quickens; she feels a heavy pulse of arousal between her legs. She slides her hand around, over Therese’s ass, and down, toying at the crevice between her thighs. She’s not wearing underwear—she never does, at night—and Carol can feel a dampness already pooling there. It makes her own desire skyrocket. She groans, softly.

“Yes? Did you like her breasts? Did you imagine what they must look like?”

Therese grabs her in a kiss, deep, devouring. She rocks her hips, clearly hoping that Carol will delve deeper, touch her, but Carol is not done with this game. Wants to drag it out. Wants to make her beg. Even so, if they’re going to play, Carol needs to be sure that Therese likes it. So she pulls back. Waits for her lover to open eyes that are glassy with desire. They look at each other, and Carol’s smile is a tease, but also a question.

Therese gives her a slow smile in return, so lascivious it makes the hairs stand up on Carol’s body.

“You enjoy this?” she asks. “Knowing what I think about her?” Carol swallows, feeling an unexpected rebalance of power, as Therese leans forward and whispers in her ear. “What do I think about her? I think about her… touching you.”

Carol moans. She moves her hand; delves into the heat between Therese’s legs. Therese’s breath hitches, her body arching, but she doesn’t lose her control.

“I think about her kissing you. What it must have looked like. Her, smaller than you, reaching up and pulling you down to her. Her tongue, sliding into your mouth. How good you must have tasted to her. How good she must have tasted. Did she?”

Carol nods, memories spinning with the taste of Fernanda’s evening brandy, and Fernanda’s perfume, and Fernanda’s full bottom lip. Carol bends down to bite into Therese’s shoulder, mumbling, “Yes.”

Therese says, “I think of her taking off your clothes. You must have been so nervous. Being touched like that by a woman for the—for the first time.”

“Like when I touched you for the first time? When I touched you like this?” Carol curls just the tip of her finger inside.

Therese nods breathlessly, her head dropping back. A hot flush has spread across her face, down her chest. Her nipples are hard as darts, her body undulating and trembling. Carol reaches for the hem of her nightgown, and together they pull it up, over her head, tossing it aside. Then, Carol’s pajamas, which come off almost as quickly, til they’re both naked and sliding together and kissing with a fury. Carol finds herself on her back, Therese kneeling over her, her eyes alight. Carol grabs her thighs. Grabs her breasts, kneading the small weight of them. 

“What next?” Carol asks.

“I think about her—putting her hands all over you. And her mouth—kissing you. Kissing your breasts. Your ribs and your stomach.”

Therese lowers her mouth, takes one of Carol’s nipples between her lips and suckles gently. She switches to the other breast, uses her hand to tease the wet nipple, til Carol is gasping and arching and sweat is gathering across her skin.

“Think about her licking you,” Therese mumbles. “Think about her spreading your thighs apart and tasting you. You always taste so good.”

Therese starts to move down—but Carol can’t stand it. With a sudden resurgence of authority, she grabs at her—grabs her waist and wrestles her, up the bed. She sees a flash of Therese’s eyes, startled, hungry, and then Carol is coaxing her to kneel, her slim, silky thighs on either side of Carol’s face, the heady scent of her flooding Carol’s brain. She dives in. Therese cries out, latching onto the headboard and shuddering as Carol’s tongue slides through her.

“Oh God—oh, Carol!”

Carol wraps her arms around her thighs, holding her tight, licking inside her where she is hotter and silkier and more delicious than the finest delicacy on the finest menu of any French restaurant. Carol’s thoughts travel through time, to a night in 1946. Fernanda young and seductive and murmuring praise as she traveled all over Carol’s trembling body. That night was a night of revelation, of rebirth, of pleasure that carried in its grip a fundamental transformation of how Carol would see herself, forever. Years went by, and her few and far between affairs were all measured against the ecstasy and joy of that one night in Fernanda’s bed. Measured, and found wanting, until her love for Abby at last gave it a rival, hinted that it could be that good with someone else—however briefly.

And then, Therese. The first night with Therese, the first kiss with Therese, eclipsed Fernanda forever. Oh, it did not take away from what Fernanda was—from what she gave to Carol, an unmatchable gift. It did not erase the pleasure they found together, or how beautiful Fernanda is, still. It only meant that now, there would be no more measuring. There would be only Therese.

Therese, who suddenly shifts above her, moving away from her mouth. Carol whines her objection, but Therese is gasping, “Have to taste you. Please—I have to!”

And then to Carol’s delight she is spinning around, lowering her hips again to Carol’s mouth—and lowering her mouth to Carol. Carol groans, as much at the eroticism of the new position as at the tongue that delves into her cunt. She hungrily resumes her task, every lick answered by a surge of pleasure between her own legs. Overcome, she still wants more. She slides her fingers inside Therese, feels muscles shiver and clench, and hopes Therese will sense her need. A moment later, Therese is matching her, three fingers pressing into her and crooking hard, in just the way that makes Therese’s mouth feel better than ever. It is bliss. It is heaven. It is—

Competitive.

Therese starts shivering and moaning above her, closer by the second, the movements of her tongue and fingers growing sloppy. Carol pulls back with a grin; she knows a little teasing goes a long way.

“Is it good, Sweetheart?” she asks, in her lowest, most provocative purr.

Therese breaks away, whimpers, “Yes—yes—please—”

“Do you like how I taste?”

“Oh, God, yes! I love it; you taste so good.”

Carol licks and sucks her messily, asks, “Do you think Fernanda liked it?”

Therese lets out a choked little shriek, her hips rocking more desperately, seeking more, seeking everything. Carol sinks as deep as she can; grips her thigh to hold her close. Growls, “Do you think she’d like how _you_ taste?”

“Fuck,” Therese sobs. For a moment Carol thinks that’s it, thinks Therese won’t be able to keep from coming, but with an apparent surge of determination, Therese holds it off. Drives her own fingers harder; takes Carol’s clit in her mouth and creates a sudden, sharp suction that she learned years ago and that always reduces Carol to rubble. Carol shouts, arches into her mouth, barely stops herself from—

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Therese groans, sounding drunk, sounding evil. “To see her taste me. To see me, screaming and coming with her mouth between my legs. Wouldn’t you like to see that, Carol? I know I would.”

Well. That’s fucking that. Carol seizes; Carol screams, muffling the sounds against Therese’s sex, managing by sheer will alone to lick and stroke her through it, til Therese, too, is coming like a river, wetness running into Carol’s mouth, a flavor so divine, so addictive, that Carol nearly swoons.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Therese has a fan club. Fernanda makes her interest known. Carol gets in touch with her feelings. 
> 
> Note: I can sense that this story is causing some people anxiety. The tags have been clear from the beginning, so I want you to know--if you don't like this, if it causes you anxiety, if it's not your cup of tea: that is okay. You should feel no obligation to continue. We're here for joy. We're here to have fun. If this story isn't fun for you, bow out, with my blessing. If you've followed my work at all, you know the love I have for these characters. I promise to treat them well.

They sleep late, finally dragging themselves out of bed around noon. They shower together, and Therese gets on her knees under the spray. Carol, wide-eyed, watches in startled delight as Therese puts one of her legs over her shoulder. Carol is tender, achy, but sensitive, and she comes surprisingly fast, her cries echoing off the tiles. Afterwards, when they get out and dry off, she fusses over Therese’s knees, certain they’ll be sore and bruised, but Therese just grins at her, lets herself be pushed back onto the bed, into the pile of rumpled sheets. Lets Carol return the favor.

They order room service, and eat on the balcony. Therese’s fondness for French pastries is a constant delight to Carol, especially when she gets to lick the little spots of cream or chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

Carol sorts the mail that has come for them, letters from Abby and Rindy, and one from Anna, saying they’d better bring her back some real French chocolates. Then, at the bottom of the pile, she discovers a telegram. It’s from Fernanda, brief:

_Beautiful ladies, what joy to see you last night. We must meet again before you leave, at least twice! Or do I intrude on your lovers’ paradise? Say you’ll have coffee this afternoon. 4 o’clock, at the Café de Flore. Oh, do come. I haven’t had nearly enough of either of you!_

“Fernanda has asked us for coffee,” Carol says. “Today. Do you want to go?”

“What time?” asks Therese.

“Four.”

Therese smiles, “I’m afraid I have another engagement.”

Carol looks up at her in surprise, “What? With who?”

Therese keep smiling. “Do you remember that little band of misfits that stuck to the corner all night? They’re Fernanda’s pack of admirers, I think, but such lovely people.”

“No, I don’t recall.”

“Well, they invited me to come take photographs of the apartment building where they live. Apparently it’s a den of expats. Casper—that’s one of them—she says it’s the sort of place tourists never see. It sounds intriguing, Carol. I was going to ask you along.”

Carol considers. Now she thinks about it, she does recall a knot of eclectically dressed, whispery women in the corner; recalls them mooning over Therese quite as much as they did over Fernanda.

“Of course, Darling,” she says. “I’ll ask Fernanda if we can do it another day. I wouldn’t want the expats to carry you off.”

But to her surprise, Therese gives a considering frown. She lifts her cup of tea and sips from it, and then she says, “No. You should go see Fernanda on your own. The two of you hardly got any chance to talk last night. This way you can talk about the good old days and not have to keep explaining things to me.”

Carol stares at her for a moment, startled and a little… intrigued. After last night (just thinking about it makes her warm with pleasure), she can’t help but read Therese’s suggestion in a different light. What is her darling girl playing at?

“You wouldn’t mind?” she asks at last.

Now Therese gives her a slow smirk over the rim of the tea cup, her lashes batting coquettishly. “Why should I mind? Are you going to run away with her?”

Carol blushes—such a rare indignity—and swats her thigh with the folded telegram. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

Therese laughs, then says sincerely, “No, Carol, I mean it. Have coffee with your friend. If you came with me you’d just have to stand around while I work. I’m determined to have the whole place catalogued. If the pictures are good I might see about another show at Charles’ gallery. He’ll eat this sort of thing up.”

Carol continues to watch her for a moment. Dare she entrust Therese to Casper and her wily friends? This is their time together, and she rather hoped they would not be parted for any of it. Still, Therese makes a good point. And it would be nice to catch up with Fernanda…

“All right, then,” she says at last. “If you’re sure.”

<><><>

Carol is late to the café, but then, so is Fernanda—and they both show up at the same time, laughing at each other as they meet on the street.

“Still irredeemably tardy, I see,” Fernanda reproves.

“Oh, you’re one to talk.”

They kiss each other’s cheeks, and stroll into the café. Fernanda, as usual, looks stunning, her dress a streamlined silhouette with fur edging that Carol instantly recognizes as Coco Chanel. They find a table and order espresso, and once they are fully settled Fernanda looks at her with one of her wide, warm grins.

“Now,” she says. “You must tell me everything.” 

“Everything?” Carol laughs.

“Well, everything about Therese, anyway. How you met. How it all happened. I am dying to know. No offense, _Carinho_ , but she is ten years younger than you. How did you ever get your hands on her?”

Carol laughs again, though this time there’s a little self-deprecation in it. “Oh, Fernanda,” she says. “If I tell you, will you promise not to think less of me?”

“Think less of you?” Fernanda frowns prettily. “What nonsense. Age is so inconsequential, if the love is there.”

“Not about that,” Carol admits. “About how I met her. And how I… almost lost her.”

Fernanda takes a little sip from her espresso cup, regarding Carol thoughtfully. She says, “ _Meu bem_ , there are no judgements here. And no demands. You may tell me whatever you like, or tell me nothing at all.” 

Carol considers this, sipping her own espresso. The fact is that she has never been particularly open with people. It was one of the things that constrained her relationship with Harge—and one of the things he took advantage of. He resented her for keeping things from him, but also did what he could to prevent her from sharing herself with others. It’s why he disliked Abby so much. Abby was the one friend, the one person outside his family and his life, that Carol retained. But even with Abby, she sometimes shut her out, or kept certain of her secrets close. It was Therese, ultimately, who taught her to be open; they taught each other, and teach each other still. Perhaps that is why she feels capable of accepting Fernanda’s offer of a confessional. And perhaps, to her surprise, she actually needs it.

So she tells her the story. The early parts are easy. Theirs was such a lovely, charming introduction—that first conversation, that first lunch date, that first trip to the tree lot and to the house. Perhaps Therese was openly fascinated by her from the start, but her own reaction to the girl was more reserved, guarded. Attraction was one thing, but could she risk an overture? What if she misstepped? What if Therese felt nothing for her at all, beyond admiration? When Carol looks back on it all now, she can marvel at herself for her opacity. But at the time, she really did doubt Therese’s feelings. It wasn’t until she slipped the knot on her robe (heart a war drum in her chest, eyes wide with terrified hope) and Therese turned toward and arched up into her kiss—that Carol really, finally believed it was what she wanted.

Fernanda listens to all of this in delight, all baited breath and coos of amazement and little cackles, and teasing Carol for being so oblivious. Carol takes it all in stride. This is the easy part.

Then comes the detective. The tapes. The gun. She tells her about Chicago, about slipping away in the night and leaving Abby to chaperone Therese, and hanging up when Therese called, and sending her no word, nothing for almost four months…

Carol is ashamed. All these years later, and she is still ashamed. She can’t bear to look at Fernanda. Even when the story veers toward its resolution, when she describes their meeting at the Ritz, and later the Oak Room, Carol can’t look at her.

In the end, it has been quiet between them for several moments before Fernanda says thoughtfully, “She took you back.”

Carol’s stomach plummets; she cannot help but read a condemnation in the words. Fernanda must be as amazed as she was, that Therese would even _consider_ …

“Yes,” she says, in a low voice. “God knows why.”

But Fernanda makes a little clucking noise, and Carol looks up to see her looking at her with a fond and slightly exasperated look, “No, _Carinho_ , you misunderstand. I said, she took you back. Meaning she loved you. Meaning that you were worthy to be loved.”

Carol frowns, taken aback. She says, “I—yes, she did love me. But of course I was… I was her first love, and she was young, and I think if it all happened now she might know better than to—”

Fernanda tsks sharply, cutting her off. “Now, now,” she says, and this time she _is_ chastising. “Let us not insult your darling girl. I know her not nearly as well as I know you, but even a few minutes in her company shows that she is no naïve fool. You said that she moved on from you. Got her fancy job and began to forge herself a life. Yes, she met you, and she was enamored, but by the time you came back, I think she had grown up quite a lot. Yes?”

Cautiously, uncertainly, Carol says, “Yes…”

“Well, then, why did she take you back? It would not have been infatuation. Not anymore. It would not have been naivete. You hurt her more than anyone else, and yet she wanted you, still. I think perhaps you might consider that you gave her much more than pain. What was it she said to me last night? Ah yes. There has been more joy than suffering.”

Fernanda nods, contented with her assessment. Carol says nothing at first. Sometimes she thinks she has dedicated her entire life to making amends for the hurt she caused Therese. That making Therese happy, giving Therese joy, has become a calling to her. It’s rare anymore than she feels the guilt of their early days. But Fernanda’s words make her wonder if that guilt has been stronger than she thought, sitting always in the back of her mind. And maybe it is time to finally, completely let it go.

The waiter comes to check on them. Fernanda orders another espresso, and a piece of cake. Carol elects for a cappuccino.

“Nothing sweet for you?” asks Fernanda.

“Therese and I have dinner reservations at 8. French food is so rich—I find I need an empty stomach in order to enjoy it to its fullest.”

“Reservations? Where?”

Carol tells her, and she sighs blissfully. “That is a good restaurant. But oh, I am disappointed! I wanted to have you both over for dinner. How many days are you still in Paris?”

“We go back Friday morning,” Carol says.

“Well, what about this week? Tuesday night, perhaps? I do want to see your Therese again.”

Carol smiles, “I’m sure that won’t be a problem. Therese will want to see you again, too; she likes you very much.”

A bright smile of pleasure. “What joy. I like her very much, too.”

“Yes,” Carol drawls, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. “I rather thought you did.”

Their eyes meet across the table, and Fernanda smirks.

“I have always liked beautiful women,” she says. “Your Therese is… _un prix_.”

Carol says, “Isn’t she just?”

They look at each other in silence. It would be so easy for this moment to turn sour, to birth recrimination and suspicion, to set them up suddenly, not as friends, but rivals. And yet, there is kindness between them, even amusement. When they first knew each other, their friendship was full of teasing, full of flirtation. It feels like that now. And Therese is not a prize to be bandied between them, to be fought over, to be owned. Therese is the love of her life. But…

Carol says, “I wonder sometimes, if she wishes she had been with other women.”

Fernanda waves a hand dismissively, “I don’t think she does. The titillation of newness is nothing to the pleasure of true love.”

“You may be right.”

“Besides, the girl is exquisite. She could have her pick, could she not? And yet, she is yours.”

“And I am hers.”

“Yes. How jealous you make me.”

Carol chuckles. “And what a flirt you are, still.”

Fernanda grins. She asks, _“Belle Carol, est-ce que je dépasse?”_

Carol grins back at her, answering _, “Non. Vous m'avez séduit parce que Harge était inconscient. Mes yeux, cependant, sont ouverts._ ”

With a scoff, Fernanda says, “You make me sound so _mercenary_.”

“Do I? Well, I have always been a little possessive of Therese.”

“How could you not? But surely you realize, my friend, that if I decided to be mercenary with you, I would aim to seduce you both.” Carol’s brows hike up. Fernanda’s little smile is shameless. She shrugs, explains, “It would be the only way, no? To take you from each other—impossible. A crime! But to share in your love, even briefly? _Décadence_!” she purrs the word.

The waiter brings their coffees, and sets the plate with the chocolate cake in front of Fernanda. Fernanda spears a bite, tastes it, moans. Looks up at Carol fiendishly, brandishing the fork, “Will you have some?”

Instead of answering, Carol sips her cappuccino. Smokes her cigarette. She imagines, suddenly, Therese at the table with them. Leaning toward Fernanda. Accepting a bite of the cake, their eyes locked. Arousal warms in her belly.

Flustered, she says, “You are incorrigible.”

“I am yes, undoubtedly! But bring your girl for dinner anyway. I promise I will not misbehave. Not without invitation, anyway.”

Carol rolls her eyes, huffs a laugh. Takes Fernanda’s fork from her and has a bite of the cake, sweet and rich and _décadente._

<><><>

Therese is there when she returns to the hotel. She’s seated on the balcony, reading, and she looks up at Carol’s entry with a wide smile. Carol bends to her. They kiss, light.

“How was it?” Carol asks.

“The pictures or the company?”

“Both.”

“The pictures were perfect. The company was lovely. They're all in love with Fernanda, which is delightful. And they brought me champagne. I felt like a celebrity.”

“I told you Paris would love you, Darling.”

Therese’s smile is shy. But then mischief comes into it, eyes sparkling as she asks, “How was Fernanda?”

Carol chuckles, taking the chair next to Therese.

“As much of a troublemaker as you, it turns out.”

“Do tell.”

“She’s invited us to dinner on Tuesday.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhmm.”

Carol gazes out at the city, at the marvel of the Eiffel Tower, and the beauty of this place to which she’s brought her love. She feels a little… anxious. Warm. Thoughts racing. She keeps thinking of what Fernanda said, that she gives Therese more joy than pain. And yet what if someday that wasn’t true? What if she made a mistake, with Therese, a terrible mistake, that ruined everything? It is one thing to have a fantasy, but to act on it—no, she won’t risk Therese. Not for anything.

A hand touches hers. She looks over to find Therese looking at her, pensive.

“What is it?”

Carol swallows. She breathes in and breathes out. They don’t lie to each other, and so she explains, “Fernanda wants us. Both of us.”

Therese’s eyebrows skyrocket. Her cheeks pink. She is so adorable and attractive in this moment that Carol thinks, _‘To hell with dinner,’_ and nearly drags her off to bed. But no, no. They should talk about it.

Then Therese says, “City of a love indeed,” and she’s smirking. She looks utterly unperturbed. Carol thought she would be uncomfortable, maybe even offended, but there’s still that look of mischief in her eyes.

Frowning, Carol asks, “Do you… do you want it? The two of us… and her?”

Therese must read something in Carol’s expression because the mischief disappears. Now she is the one frowning. She stands up, coming to Carol’s chair. It’s beautiful relief, when she slides into her lap, holding her face gently, kissing her eyelids.

“Baby, no, of course not—I would _never_ want something that you didn’t want.”

Carol’s stomach drops. In humiliation she realizes that she is… disappointed. She keeps her eyes down, afraid for Therese to see, but of course—

“Carol?”

Therese is still holding her face, and after a moment of Carol still staring down into Therese’s lap, she lifts her chin, forcing eye contact. Therese looks into her eyes for a long time, searching, before all at once it hits her. Her lips part in surprise. Her eyes widen.

“You _do_ want it, don’t you?”

Carol is flushed, ashamed. She tries to speak, to deny, but all she can manage is, “I—I—I—”

Therese says, “I thought you wouldn’t—I mean, don’t get me wrong, Carol, but you can be just a little possessive.”

Carol’s brows draw together. “You’re one to talk.”

“Yes, when someone is trying to _take_ you from me. I’m not particularly worried about that, here. I’m more worried, in fact, that you seem embarrassed by what you’re feeling.”

Carol scoffs, “Shouldn’t I be?” she demands.

Another frown from Therese, “But why? It’s no reflection of your love for me. You don’t want Fernanda instead of me. You would never ask me to do it, if I didn’t want it, too. It’s all right with me if we never see Fernanda again, but I hope you won’t make that decision based on what you think you’re supposed to feel. After all, if we lived like that—only letting ourselves feel what we’re supposed to, well… I would never have sent you back your gloves.”

That startles an unexpected laugh out of Carol, and she wraps her arms around Therese’s waist, pulling her closer, reaching up to kiss the sweet and dimpled smile. Therese runs her nose along Carol’s, asks her gently, “Tell me what you want.”

Carol feels shivery all over, nerves mixed with arousal. She says a little breathlessly, “I—want whatever you want.”

Therese chuckles; shakes her head. “No, baby, not good enough. You have to be selfish for a moment. What do _you_ want?”

Carol presses her face forward, into the soft warmth of Therese’s throat. She kisses her there, at the dip, that flutters under her mouth. She wrestles herself for a moment, wrestles her feelings and her fears, and then—

“I want… to share you with her.” Therese makes a little sound, almost a growl, of pleasure. It spears Carol with want, gives her courage. She says, “I want her to see… how beautiful you are. I want to see her touch you. To touch you, with her.” Therese shifts in her lap, restless, humming. Carol mouths her way up to her lips, kissing her slow and deep. Runs her hands up her back, into her fine dark hair. “I wouldn’t want it with anyone else. I would… I would hate it, with anyone else. But… but with her. God…”

Therese kisses her back, slips her tongue into her mouth, a flicker of wetness. Then pulls back, looking into her eyes. Her own are hooded, smokey. A little smile curves her gorgeous lips, and Carol finds herself finally, shyly, smiling back.

“Well, then,” Therese murmurs. “You’d better send her our reply…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> Belle Carol, est-ce que je dépasse?”  
> Non. Vous m'avez séduit parce que Harge était inconscient. Mes yeux, cependant, sont ouverts.
> 
> Beautiful Carol, do I overstep?  
> No. You seduced me because Harge was oblivious. My eyes, however, are open.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up in the kitchen.

Fernanda cooks for them, a traditional Brazilian stew called _Feijoada_ which apparently takes as long as a day to make. Fernanda has a formal dining room, but this is not where they eat. She invites them into her kitchen for the final preparations of the meal, and surrounded by the sights and smells of Fernanda cooking, Therese experiences something very like the comfort of being at home and cooking with Carol. Or watching Carol cook, since Therese isn’t particularly good at it herself. Carol is an amazing cook.

So is Fernanda. They eat at her kitchen table, out of large clay bowls. Therese never would have thought that in the city of Paris she would eat one of the best meals of her life—and it wouldn’t be French.

“Oh, Christ,” Carol moans around her first mouthful of the stew. “Who knew you were hiding another talent? This is delicious!”

“Consider it my gift to you both,” says Fernanda happily, eating from her own bowl. “Travel should always involve tasting new things.”

“It’s incredible,” Therese agrees, and then, looking at Carol, “Did Fernanda cook for you, when you were here before?”

Carol laughs, “Oh, Darling, it was Harge’s business trip. Every night we ate at fancy restaurants. I would have much preferred a meal in this kitchen, believe me.”

“Now, Carol, don’t forget,” Fernanda chides her. “While Harge and Vincent were away on their ridiculous hunting trip—the dessert I made us? _Brigadeiros_?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Carol smiles, telling Therese, “It’s a kind of chocolate truffle. You would love it,” and, to Fernanda. “She loves sweet things.”

Fernanda grins, “I can believe it. But I’m afraid there’s no _brigadeiros_ , tonight. I did buy some _mille-feuille_ from my local bakery. A little something French to remind you you’re in Paris.”

Therese beams, taking another bite of the stew, though through her mind is flowing one continuous thought: the night that Fernanda served the _brigadeiros_ —that would have been the night that Carol stayed in the apartment. The night Fernanda came to her in her room and slid her hands into her hair and kissed her—

“Look at you,” Fernanda says suddenly, startling Therese back into the present. “Why, _Querida_ , you look miles away. What are you thinking of?”

Therese blushes, recovers, says, “Just how pleased I am. To be here.”

Fernanda’s smile is warm and fond. “And I am pleased to have you, dear Therese. Parties are one thing, but if I had my way, I would do all my entertaining in this kitchen. It makes me feel almost like I am back home, you see? And company such as yours,” she looks between them. “It is like family, in a way.”

There passes a kind of shy pleasure between the three of them, to have it put so. Therese suddenly realizes that in a few days they will go back to New York, and who knows if they’ll see Fernanda again? She will miss this woman. Miss her brightness and life and humor. She wishes there would not be an ocean between them. Because whatever happens tonight, a true friendship has formed.

They finish their meal, sopping up the stew with hearty cuts of bread, and laughing and chatting, and when the bowls are clean and set aside and they are all leaned back in their chairs quite happy and content, Fernanda claps her hands.

“What next, my loves? Cigarette? Coffee? Shall we skip straight to dessert?”

At that, Therese notices Carol, her body going subtly tense, her fingers in her lap twisting together. It’s all Therese can do not to smirk at her transparency.

Since Sunday, Carol has been more attentive than ever, her affection even bleeding over into unprecedented public displays, little touches and looks and winks when they are mostly assured that no one is watching them. They spent Monday shopping, and Carol spoiled her, bought her the dress she is wearing now, and a very tasteful necklace from Cartier. Therese is wearing that, too, the diamond dangling just above her breasts, like a talisman, like a marker of ownership. Therese shivers, thinking of Carol putting it on her before they left for dinner. Of her bending down to brush her lips against Therese’s shoulder and neck, the slip of wetness from her tongue…

Yes, she has been very attentive. But she has also been restless. More than once Therese has noticed her looking far away, preoccupied, and known what she was thinking. Persuading Carol to admit what she wanted was a revelation for Therese. She saw in her then a vulnerability that Carol rarely showed, a desire that made her shy, but which, at Therese’s coaxing, she did not shut away. There is something… empowering about it. About knowing what Carol desires, knowing she is afraid to desire it, and knowing that she, Therese, is in the position to give it to her, or deny. For Therese has no illusions—the merest word from her, and Carol will never raise this whim again. Which means that now Therese finds herself in a position of power that is both intoxicating, and humbling. Not for anything will Therese abuse that power.

Therese looks at Fernanda. “Nothing for me just now, thanks. Carol, do you want anything?”

There’s authority in her voice. Carol blinks at her. Fernanda, she notices, looks sharply between them, observing, curious.

Carol’s voice is soft, “No, I—I’m quite all right at the moment.”

Therese smiles gently, encouragingly. She doesn’t take her eyes off of her, even as she says, “Fernanda, when you met Carol, was she as beautiful as she is now?”

Color floods Carol’s cheeks. She breathes in sharply but, like a woman under a spell, does not break eye contact.

In a low, throaty voice, Fernanda _hmms_ , and says, “She was very beautiful. Exquisite. But I must confess, I think she is more beautiful now.” Therese feels Fernanda’s eyes on her. “Just as you are, _Querida_.”

Therese grins, breaking her stare with Carol to look at the Brazilian beauty, whose eyes seem to glitter.

“And when you made love to her… was that beautiful, too?”

Carol makes a low sound.

“Transporting,” says Fernanda. “It is always incredible, making love to a woman who has never touched a woman before. But even so, Carol was special. So beautiful. So brave. So… needy.”

Carol’s nostrils flare. Therese watches her clench the napkin in her lap. Therese says to Fernanda, “When Carol made love to me the first time, I thought I would die from how good it felt.”

“Yes,” Fernanda murmurs, “I imagine you did. I imagine she did, too.”

“Yes,” Carol speaks for the first time, looking at Therese. “Yes, I thought I would die. You were the most amazing woman I had ever seen, ever touched. I wanted you more than I’d ever wanted anything. I still do.” 

Therese smiles at her, gently, encouragingly, knowing the words she doesn’t say: _‘More than Fernanda. More than Abby. We can leave now, and I won’t mind. I love you, Therese, I love you.’_

But Therese does not want to leave. Therese turns her gaze back upon Fernanda, those deep chocolate eyes locking with hers, full of desire, full of excitement.

“Carol tells me you want to go to bed with us,” says Therese, her voice calm, her stare direct.

Fernanda’s lips curve in a surprised and delighted smile. It’s an intoxicating sight. She chuckles lowly, says, “What a little vixen you are, _belle fille_. But of course, yes, I do. How could I not?”

Therese says, “And you understand that it would only be once?”

Fernanda’s tongue pokes between her teeth. She says, devilishly, “One night, perhaps. But definitely more than once.”

Therese can’t help it. She blushes. It takes all her self-control not to look away, to hide. Instead, she quirks an eyebrow at Fernanda. “Conceded. One night, though? You understand?”

Fernanda becomes a little more serious, though she is still smiling. “Of course, _Querida_. I am no interloper.”

Therese nods, aware of Carol watching her like a hawk, watching her with a hungry fixation that she has only ever witnessed in private. The difference is… electrifying.

Therese stands up. She walks around her chair, until she is standing before Carol’s seated form. Carol looks up at her, eyes hooded and smoky and desiring. She looks into those eyes, looks carefully, asking her question, seeking her answer. After a long moment, Carol’s lip quirks in the slightest smile; her chin dips in the smallest nod. Therese weaves her hands into Carol’s hair, and kisses her.

Carol opens to her at once, lets her slide her tongue inside. She tastes delicious; tastes of the meal they ate, of bay leaf and tomato and orange. She is a feast all on her own, and Therese stands there kissing her without restraint, until she wrings a low moan from her throat. Then, almost moaning herself, Therese steps back, looks at Fernanda. Fernanda is watching them, her face a picture of curiosity and desire. Therese steps away from them both, going to the kitchen entryway, aware of their eyes, following her. She stops at the door, and looks back.

“You should show us your room.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be up tomorrow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol is in charge.

Fernanda leads them to a large room with a view of the Seine, with a bed as big as the one at the George V. When Carol spent the night here over ten years ago, Fernanda came to her in the guest room, touched her in the guest bed. She has never been in Fernanda’s room before. She’s pleased. In a strange way it almost seems to put her and Therese on the same footing. They enter a new realm together.

Not that Therese appears to need the confidence boost. Oh no, her wide-eyed shop girl is quite transformed in this moment, a queen in her kingdom, a goddess before her worshipers. And Carol in delight sees that Fernanda is equally overtaken, watching Therese with a smoldering hunger that she does not act on; wise enough to know that the goddess must give her leave. And so it is that when they are all stood in the room together, Therese comes to Carol again. Looks up at Carol. Speaks to Fernanda but never takes her eyes off Carol’s face.

“Fernanda, is this what you did?” she asks, and slides her hands up, into Carol’s hair. Carol feels the skritch of her nails along her scalp, and shudders.

“Yes,” says Fernanda.

Therese lifts up onto her toes, hovers her mouth close to Carol’s. “And this?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Therese kisses her, slow and deep and possessive, and Carol’s knees are weak, and when she slips her arms around Therese’s slim waist, it’s as much to have something to hold on to, as anything else. They kiss for a while. They kiss like fiends. When Therese finally breaks away, Carol can see in her periphery that Fernanda is watching them avidly.

“Do you make love to lots of women?” asks Therese, even as she nudges her nose against Carol’s; runs it down Carol’s cheek; nuzzles her jawline. Carol is starting to feel drunk, and not from the wine at dinner.

Fernanda chuckles, “Define ‘lots.’ I like women. I like making love to them. But I am not reckless.”

Therese slides her hands up Carol’s rib cage, then to the buttons of the blouse she is wearing, undoing the top one, and the one below that. Carol reaches for her hips; digs her fingers in.

“When you make love to these women, I suppose you’re always in charge, aren’t you?”

“Usually,” say Fernanda. “But not always.” Then, with a tease in her voice, “I begin to think that _you_ will be the captain tonight, no?”

Therese gives a low laugh that sounds like sin. She has exposed Carol’s chest and leans closer, scraping teeth against her breastbone, still undoing her other buttons. Carol’s breaths come a little unsteadily now. She can feel a deep ache between her legs, a different kind of desire than she’s used to—fueled by nerves, tempered by the comfort of Therese’s confident, possessing hands.

Therese says, “Not quite. Come here.”

Carol blinks, unfocused, and watches Fernanda, her hips swaying as she glides toward them. Her eyes meet Carol’s, and what she sees must please her, because she smirks, and winks. Shivers flood Carol’s body. She has a sudden premonition of Fernanda touching Therese, kissing Therese, fucking Therese. The images that go through her mind are intoxicating, exquisite, but they also bring a return of some of the anxiety she has felt, these past two days. Therese is the most precious thing in her life. What if, while it is happening, she changes her mind? What if Fernanda does something, touches her in some way, that she doesn’t like? That frightens her or upsets her? And then it will be Carol’s fault, for putting her in a position to be—

Therese’s fingers touch her chin, tip her face, bring their eyes together again. Carol blinks slowly, looking into those eyes, green as gemstones and worth millions more. Therese smiles gently, soothingly. Carol breathes in, and breathes out. Just then, Fernanda is beside them, watching them with fascinated eyes. 

Therese looks at Fernanda, again with that cool confidence. It makes Carol want to strip her naked and make love to her until she is a shaking, moaning, helpless wreck—

“I want you both tonight,” says Therese to Fernanda. Her assured certainty is electrifying. It makes Carol clench with want. “But you must understand that, even now, I am Carol’s.”

Fernanda is quick to nod, quick to say, “Of course, sweet girl, of course.”

“Which means,” says Therese, “that if you want to touch me, if you want to kiss me, if you want to do anything to me, really—first, you have to ask Carol.”

Carol’s and Fernanda’s gazes snap to each other, and Carol is certain that the sharp flare of lust in Fernanda’s eyes is answered in her own. She looks quickly down at Therese, wanting to be sure—but her love is smiling at her, an impish smile, knowing. In a wave of gratitude Carol realizes that this is _exactly_ what she needs: a staking of her claim, an assertion of Therese’s complete trust—and a promise from Fernanda to be guided by her.

“That is a marvelous idea,” purrs Fernanda. “Carol, do you agree?”

Carol’s voice is raspy, “I do.”

“Well, then,” Fernanda says, “Carol… may I take off Therese’s clothes?”

Therese’s body flexes under her hands; she breathes in, a little sip of air, her eyes wide and dark as they stare up into Carol’s, pleading. Yes, for all her cool control, now she is pleading, wanting, needy. Ready to begin. Carol’s lips spread in a slow, feline smile, all of Therese’s confidence and strength now inspiring her own. She slides a hand into Therese’s hair, clenching and tipping her head back, exposing her throat, that she bites, softly.

And to Fernanda she says, “You can help.”

They work together. Fernanda comes to stand behind Therese, glancing for permission to Carol before she touches her for the first time—just her hands, bunching in the fabric at Therese’s waist. Even that, that small thing, makes Carol’s pulse quicken.

“Unzip her,” Carol murmurs, as her own hands slide down to the hem of Therese’s dress. She hears the zipper, loud in the room as Fernanda lowers it, and then she too grabs the hem of the dress and Therese lifts her arms and they sweep it off of her together, leaving her in bra and panties and garter belt, hair mussed, lips parted, eyes wide. Carol says, “Take off her stockings.”

Instantly, Fernanda lowers to her knees, reaching for the clips. At the touch of those fingers to her thighs, Therese shivers, hands clenching in Carol’s unbuttoned blouse. Carol soothes her, little gentle kisses, as the clips come undone and Fernanda begins to drag the stockings down her thighs. With Carol for balance, Therese lifts one leg, then the other, the stockings soon discarded, and the garter belt next, til she is in nothing but bra and panties.

“Feel her skin,” Carol says.

With a low hum, Fernanda does. She rises to her feet, sliding open palms up Therese’s calves, her knees, her thighs. She touches her hips and waist, strokes across her back and her shoulders, all while Therese shivers and sighs, eyes still locked with Carol’s. Carol reaches around to release her bra, and it slips between them, landing on the floor. Carol touches her face; kisses the tip of her nose, smiles at her with all the love and adoration she feels, and then, spins her in her arms.

Therese gasps. Suddenly, her back is pressed to Carol’s chest; Carol’s arm is wound around her waist, and Fernanda stands before her. Carol watches them. They are of a height, and Fernanda is smiling. Fernanda’s eyes lower, taking in Therese’s bared chest. Carol cups her breasts, thumbs her nipples, wanting Fernanda to see the little peaks harden and flush. Fernanda’s lips part as she watches.

“ _Carinho_ ,” she sighs, “How lucky you are, to have such a woman.”

“Yes,” Carol agrees, squeezing gently, relishing in the sensation of Therese’s head, pressing back against her shoulder; of her back arching; of her chest heaving with little excited breaths. “Isn’t she extraordinary?” 

“Like a fairy queen,” says Fernanda, eyes locked on Therese’s mouth. “Can I kiss her?”

Carol grins. She leans down, whispering in Therese’s ear, “What do you think, my love? Should I let her kiss you?”

Therese whimpers. Her hands that had been hanging at her sides reach forward, taking Fernanda by the hips, pulling Fernanda closer, so that she is sandwiched between the bodies of both women, their body heat creating a warm cocoon. But Fernanda, bless her, does not kiss, does not touch. She remembers the rules.

“Kiss her,” Carol permits. “But… gently.”

From her vantage point, it’s easy for Carol to watch, to see the moment their lips touch. Fernanda is gentle, but confident. Therese is tentative, letting herself be kissed. This is only the second woman ever to kiss her, and that thought makes Carol almost mad with lust, and with pride—because she will always be the first. And, if she has any say in it, the last. But now Therese is kissing Fernanda, and Fernanda’s full, exquisite mouth is coaxing hers open, sweet and easy as can be, and her tongue slips forward, brushing Therese’s tongue. In a flurry of sensation Carol remembers her own first kiss with Fernanda. Remembers the feeling of those lips, of that tongue. Feels almost as if _she_ is being kissed, just as Fernanda kisses Therese, and she wants her love to enjoy it just as much as she does.

“That’s right, Darling,” she murmurs. “Feel how good she feels. Fernanda, touch her. She likes to be touched when she’s kissed.”

Fernanda’s hands, which had been so obediently hanging at her sides, slide forward at once, up Therese’s chest and neck, before taking face between them, kissing her deeply—but still gentle. Carol strokes Therese’s breasts, toys with her nipples, takes one between finger and thumb and pinches sharp enough that Therese cries out into Fernanda’s mouth—and then starts kissing _her_ , deep, ferocious, demanding. Carol hears Fernanda’s little chuckle of delight, and watches them kiss each other. Therese’s hands find the hem of Fernanda’s bright red sweater and begin to pull at it. She breaks the kiss with a gasp.

She says, “You’re both overdressed.”

And then, before Fernanda or Carol can expect it, she slips out of their arms, stands aside and lowers her panties to the ground and watches them, glorious and unselfconscious in her nudity.

“Undress each other,” she commands.

Carol’s and Fernanda’s faces split with smiles.

“A demanding little thing, is she not?” Fernanda asks.

“Wait til you’ve got her on the edge of coming,” Carol replies.

Therese smirks, says imperiously, “I’m waiting.”

With laughter in their eyes, Carol and Fernanda reach for each other. It feels like the most natural and familiar thing in the world, to do as Therese says, to find buttons and closures and ties, to strip Fernanda of her sweater and skirt and let her own blouse be tugged off, her slacks unbuttoned and pushed down their thighs. Almost without thinking, Carol puts a hand in Fernanda’s hair, pulls her forward, and kisses her.

Fernanda moans. Distantly Carol hears Therese moan. And Carol, too, is moaning, memories flooding her in concert with the sensation of Fernanda’s lips and tongue. They move clumsily now, trying to kiss and undress at the same time, scrabbling at brassiere hooks and girdles and garter snaps, until at long last they are both completely naked.

Carol looks down in amazement at Fernanda’s body. Her warm dark skin is smooth to the touch. Her breasts are heavy, hang a little lower than they did ten years ago, but retain a delightful round firmness, nipples brown and tight. Her hips flare into the bottom of her hourglass figure; her belly has a soft, attractive bump. There are lean muscles in her arms and thighs, and black, wiry curls guard her sex. She is a vision. 

All the while Carol is looking at Fernanda, she is aware of Fernanda looking at her, and if there was a part of Carol that wondered whether Fernanda would be disappointed by the changes wrought by time, all that disappears when Fernanda looks up, looks at Therese, and says in awe, “She really is more beautiful than ever. How do you ever let her out of your bed?”

Therese, who is now perching on the edge of Fernanda’s thick down comforter, hands braced behind her and watching them dreamily, smirks.

“Believe me, it’s a struggle,” she confides.

“For both of you, no doubt,” says Fernanda, eyes sweeping over Therese’s slim and delicate body. She looks at Carol again, says cheekily. “You’re in charge, _meu bem_. Are you going to let me put my mouth on that gorgeous creature?”

Carol looks over at Therese, whose face has gone absolutely slack with lust. Perhaps she is remembering their lovemaking on Saturday night, Carol whispering in her ear, _‘Do you think she’d like how you taste?’_ Instead of answering Fernanda, Carol, walks over to Therese, pulls her in close, and starts kissing her, hard.

Oh, she tastes good—she tastes so good; she always does, her mouth so soft and inviting, her tongue like a little flickering flame that spreads heat through Carol’s body. Carol climbs onto the bed, lifting Therese and carrying her backwards with an ease that she knows drives her lover wild. This time is no exception. Therese, panting and whimpering, clutches at Carol’s hair as she finds herself suddenly in the middle of the bed. But Carol doesn’t dally. Therese is arching with need, and she feels pretty needy herself. She sits against the headboard, pulling Therese toward her—and then turning her. Stretching her out between her legs, wrapping her in her arms and pulling her back against her own chest.

“Oh, God,” Therese moans.

Carol looks where she’s looking. Fernanda stands at the foot of the bed watching them with the least playful look she has worn all night. No, right now, she looks far from playful—she looks _ravenous_.

“Come here, Darling,” Carol invites.

Fernanda crawls slowly onto the bed, crawls slowly toward them, for all the world like an elegant and deadly lioness on the hunt. Carol’s skin erupts with goosebumps at the sheer ferocity of Fernanda’s desiring eyes, which keeps moving from her, to Therese, and back again. In her arms, Therese has started trembling. Carol’s thighs are bracketing hers, and she’s got a grip on them that’s almost painful, as if she thinks she’s about to float away. Carol tightens the arm around her, holds her close, as Fernanda finally comes to kneel over her, knees bracketing their calves. Therese’s thighs are still closed, and Fernanda smirks at her.

“Ah, _Querida_ ,” she says, “Are you shy?”

Carol hears Therese gulp like a cartoon character. She stammers, “I—I—”

Fernanda looks at Carol, devilish, “I think she’s shy, Carol. I think she’s afraid that we’re going to eat her alive.”

Carol nuzzles Therese’s jaw, murmurs to her in the same low, teasing voice Fernanda uses, “Are you afraid, Dearest? You know we can stop if you like.”

But Therese is already shaking her head, and Carol chuckles throatily. “Well then,” she says, and pats one of her lover’s thighs, “Be a good girl.”

Therese arches against her. Carol can see that her eyes are locked with Fernanda’s, the older woman still smirking at her. Then, cautiously, Therese parts her legs. As soon as she does, Carol moves with authority. She hooks Therese’s legs over her own thighs; hooks her feet around Therese’s ankles, spreading her wide, holding her open. Therese cries out softly as she realizes she is trapped—a sound not of fear, but exultation. Carol slides a hand down to her sex, playing through the wetness that has already smeared her inner thighs.

“Oh, Fernanda,” she says. “I think we’ve excited her. Look.” She holds up her fingers, wet and glistening, and isn’t prepared when Fernanda leans forward—and takes her fingers in her mouth.

She sucks slowly, strongly, eyes locked with Carol’s. Every suck is like a pull of sensation between Carol’s legs, and she shifts, restless with desire. But no, no, not yet—that’s not what she wants—yet. She pulls her fingers away.

Fernanda growls, “ _Délicieux_ ,” and looks at Therese, but asks Carol, “ _Puis-je goûter plus_?”

Therese groans at the seamless transition to French, and Carol, unwilling to let the opportunity go, says, “ _Oui chéri. Goûtez-la. Elle a si bon goût.”_

Fernanda doesn’t hesitate. She slides onto her belly, slides between Therese’s shaking thighs, and puts her mouth on her.

Carol remembers with crystal clarity how good Fernanda was at this. She remembers herself, laid out on the bed, trembling and panting even more helplessly than Therese does now. She watches Fernanda’s tongue swirl and flick all around Therese’s weeping sex, and remembers how it felt on her—hot and wet and soft and rough and absolutely _maddening_. She holds Therese close, locking her in place, no escape from the pounding sensations. It goes on for several minutes, Fernanda slow and exploratory, never staying in one place for very long, teasing Therese without mercy. Carol notices that she has not gone anywhere near her entrance, no doubt waiting for permission, and so—

“Lick her inside,” Carol orders, her own hands rising to cup and stroke Therese’s breasts, “ _Fermement_ ,” she adds, “ _comme si elle était un bol de crème_.”

Fernanda does, and as soon as she starts tasting her at the source, Therese seizes. Carol thinks for a second that she’s coming, but no, not quite. She lets loose a near sob of anguished pleasure, face pressing hard into Carol’s throat. Carol thinks of the fantasy they shared in bed, and this moment eclipses it, utterly.

“What do you think, Darling?” Carol asks her, half teasing, half needing to know. “Does her mouth feel good on you? Do you like how she’s licking you?”

“Oh, gah—it—fu—y-y-yes,” Therese is incoherent, eyes squeezed shut, hips rocking. 

“Open your eyes, Angel. Watch her taste you. Good girl. See how beautiful she is, making love to you like this? See how beautiful you look, in her mouth?”

Therese’s hands on her thighs clench harder, nails digging in. There will definitely be bruises. Carol reaches down, wanting to feel her. God, she’s soaked, molten, soft and tender and sensitive as Carol swirls her fingers around her clit.

“Carol!” she keens, “Oh, God—please!”

Fernanda pauses the stroking of her tongue to ask in a low breathless voice, “Can I put my fingers inside her?”

Carol is just about to say yes, knowing how much Therese likes that fullness. But then, she has a sudden memory of their second year together; a night in August when they made love through a sweltering heat wave, and Carol was inside her with four fingers, fucking her hard and deep and both of them drenched in sweat. It was the first time Carol ever made her come without touching her clit, and afterwards Therese lay gasping and laughing with the joy of pleasure, and she said breathlessly, “I never want anyone inside me but you.”

The memory only ratchets Carol’s arousal. To Fernanda she says, “No. No fingers. Just your mouth. Lick her here.” Carol uses her fingers to pull Therese’s lips apart, to ease back the hood of her clit, exposing its cherry redness to the air. “She’s close. Lick her here.”

Fernanda makes no fuss about being denied. She moves her mouth up with a hungry sound, and seals her lips over Therese’s clit. With the glans so rudely exposed, with her legs forced open and Carol’s free hand toying with a nipple, Carol knows that Therese is helpless to control herself. Her body starts jerking; her breaths come in sharp, high-pitched squeaks.

“That’s it,” Carol coos. “Don’t fight it. I want Fernanda to see you. Show her how beautiful you are. Do it for me.” 

“Carol—” 

“That’s it, you perfect, gorgeous girl. Come for us.”

Therese makes a sound that is almost animal—half shriek, half shout, and altogether magnificent. She seizes; she throbs. Fernanda’s hands grab her thighs and Carol’s arms wrap across her chest and belly, and together they hold her down, make it last, make her helpless to do anything but feel— _all_ of it.

By the time she starts coming down, Carol is throbbing so hard she wonders if she’s going to come without anyone even touching her. Fernanda pulls back, gasping for breath, her mouth and chin smeared with Therese’s pleasure, her pupils blown wide and black. Therese goes limp in her arms, shivery and almost sobbing. The room smells of sex and Therese’s body is slick with sweat, sticking against Carol’s skin as she twists her neck around and grabs Carol hair and kisses her hard, deliciously carnal. Carol lets her, knows she needs the connection, the intimacy, and Carol needs it, too. It’s both comfort, and arousal, bandied between their searching tongues as Therese’s breaths became a fraction less labored, her trembling slightly less intense. 

When they break apart, Carol is almost startled to find Fernanda there, leaning in, taking Therese’s place. Her open mouth slides against Carol’s, and Carol releases a desperate groan—she tastes of Therese, that incomparable flavor that, on another women’s tongue, is somehow even more addictive. Therese, caught between them, still grips Carol’s hair, encouraging the kiss. After what feels like an age of debauched and delicious kissing, Fernanda pulls back. She flicks her gaze between Carol and Therese, before landing on Carol again. Her lips pull apart in an absolutely wicked smile.

“Tell me, Carol… does she care for toys?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Délicieux. Puis-je goûter plus?_ Delicious. Can I taste more?  
>  _Oui chéri. Goûtez-la. Elle a si bon goût._ Yes Dear. Taste her. She tastes so good.  
>  _Fermement, comme si elle était un bol de crème_ Firmly, as if she were a bowl of cream
> 
> Not to be a thirsty bitch, but if you're liking this story at all, please leave a comment. I could use the encouragement today.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our story reaches its inevitable... climax. 
> 
> Thanks so much for all your wonderful feedback last time, folks! Dare I hope for a repeat? FYI, there will be an epilogue, probably tomorrow. Please forgive the anachronistic sex toys. The muse wants what she wants.

Therese lies against Carol’s chest, still breathing unsteadily, as Fernanda places the toys on the bed. With a wink for each of them, she says she is going to go get them some water, and then saunters naked out the room. It’s a fairly transparent means to give them a moment alone, and Therese is grateful. Once she’s gone, she stretches luxuriously in Carol’s arms and twists her neck around. Carol is there at once, and they kiss, slow and tender. Carol’s hands slide possessively up and down her thighs, which still ache from the force of their trembling as she came. _God_. Just thinking about it makes Therese clench again, her sex heavy and warm.

“My angel,” Carol murmurs into her mouth. “Are you all right?”

Therese chuckles. “I’m fantastic. How are you?”

Carol pulls back enough to grin at her, “Better even than I expected to be. You are exquisite, my love. I—I simply can’t—the way you—”

She breaks off with a helpless little laugh. Therese can feel the tension in her body, the restlessness of her stroking hands and the shift of her hips beneath her. Therese smirks, recognizing all the signs. Carol is in that delicious state of arousal when she is trying hard to be patient but would probably do anything Therese asked for the promise of release. Therese climbs out of her lap, moving down to kneel at the foot of the bed, where the toys are laid. She’s aware of Carol’s eyes following her, hawkish.

The toys are both what she expected, and not. Among them: lovely silk scarves, a blindfold, and, to her blushing incredulity, handcuffs. Perhaps if Therese was alone with Carol, she’d be open to this sort of direction, but as it stands… she mentally pushes these items away.

There’s a very small, triangular toy with a flat base that baffles Therese. It almost looks like a miniature figurine of a Christmas tree. She holds it up for Carol, a question in her eyes. Carol smiles wickedly but gives a little shake of her head. “Nevermind that one, love, we can talk about it another time if you like.”

Therese is intrigued but defers to Carol. She turns to the other toys; these are more recognizable. Three dildos, and a harness. One of them is like the one they have at home. One is prohibitively bigger than the others. One is… peculiar. It has two shafts, one typical, and one short with a bulbous head; together, they make a ‘J’ shape that momentarily confuses Therese. Then, like a light switch going on, she understands. She looks at Carol, wide-eyed.

“Does this—”

Carol grins, eyes twinkling. “Mm-hmm.”

Therese regards it with definite interest, says, “Huh… so it doesn’t need a harness?”

More grinning from Carol, “If you can manage to hold it inside, yes.”

Therese pinks, looking down at the assorted dildos again and asking, “Do you want to?”

Carol considers. A look comes into her eyes, almost apprehension. She asks with forced casualness, “Who do you want to wear it?”

Therese smiles adoringly. She crawls back across the bed to take Carol’s lips in a soft, sweet kiss. When it breaks, Carol still looks a little nervous, a little shy.

“You, of course,” Therese whispers. “Who else would I want inside me like that?”

Carol’s lips part. Her pupils seem to blow even wider. She looks just about to lunge at Therese when the sound of a clearing throat distracts them both. Fernanda leans in the doorway, carrying a carafe of water and smirking at them. Therese marvels again at her petite but voluptuous figure, all those curves encased in silky brown skin. 

“Do I interrupt?” Fernanda asks.

Therese grins. “Not at all. I’d love a drink.”

Fernanda comes over with the carafe, standing beside the bed and handing it to Therese. There are no glasses. She drinks directly from the jug, desperately thirsty, and then hands it to Carol. Carol drinks, still watching Therese with a fixed desire that can’t help but make her preen. When Carol gives the carafe to Fernanda, and Fernanda places it on the end table, they all pause to regard each other. It would be very easy for this moment to become awkward—

But then Fernanda flows onto the bed. She kisses Therese, gently, and Therese raises a hand to cup her face as she does, melting into the full softness of her mouth, nerves lighting up with the awareness of Carol watching them. Therese keeps kissing her, even as she reaches over to pick up the J-shaped toy.

“We thought we’d use this.”

Fernanda groans, her tongue sliding briefly inside, sending shivers down Therese’s spine.

“What a spectacular idea. I would offer to do the honors, but something tells me your Carol is a bit of the ravenous wolf in this department—and that’s something I would _love_ to see.”

“Would you believe Therese is a bit of the wolf herself?” asks Carol, her voice a hungry rasp.

Fernanda looks at Therese in surprise and delight, “Really?”

Therese blushes furiously, half embarrassment, half arousal—thinking of the first time she wore a toy for Carol and slid inside her and fucked her into the—

“But for tonight…” Carol’s voice interrupts her thoughts, her gaze searing as she trails off.

Watching Therese avidly, Fernanda points to a little bottle of lubricant on the bed. “You might want to use that.”

Therese grabs the bottle and kneels between Carol’s thighs. Carol’s sex, flushed and wet, makes adrenaline surge through her as she uncaps the bottle and slathers the thick and bulbous side of the toy.

“It’s big,” Fernanda remarks, turning her head to nuzzle at Carol’s neck, murmuring to her, “Can you handle it, _Carinho_?”

Carol whimpers. Therese chuckles. “Don’t underestimate her. Right now she’s so desperate I think she could take anything.”

“Oh?” Fernanda asks, raking her teeth down Carol’s throat, biting her collarbone.

Therese nods, pressing the toy carefully against Carol’s entrance. She looks up into her eyes again, Carol’s black with lust. She bites her lip and moans and nods, and Therese slides inside.

There’s a moment of resistance, the widest part of the toy pressing into her, but Therese is slow and gentle and firm, conscious of Carol’s thighs flexing and her hips pressing up. Then, with a pop, she’s in.

Carol sobs. Her whole body jerks and her chest pushes up in the air and her head drops back, eyes slamming shut as the pleasure burns through her. Therese doesn’t give her time to adjust to it, instead using the longer end of the toy to rock the shorter end into her, drawing a helpless shout of ecstasy from Carol’s lips.

“ _Méchante fille_ ,” Fernanda’s chuckle is filthy. “You are merciless with her, aren’t you?”

“She needs it,” says Therese. “Come here. Let me show you.”

Carol fists her hands in the sheets as Fernanda practically scrambles to kneel beside Therese. Therese takes her hand and places it over the longer shaft, and together they push into Carol, angling their thrusts towards the aching spot that Therese always tries to touch when they’re fucking. Carol’s eyes snap open, widen at the sight of them, beseeching. She’s so wet the toy moves easily. Her hips and thighs and belly clench with every breath she takes. But Therese doesn’t like the sight of her laid out like that, so far away, and so she lets go of the toy and murmurs against Fernanda’s ear, “Keep going.”

She sees gooseflesh erupt across Fernanda’s neck and shoulders just before she crawls back up the bed, coming to lay alongside Carol’s panting body. She slides her hand into Carol’s hair and drags her mouth to hers, kissing her deep and filthy, her tongue aggressive, consuming.

When she breaks away Carol is looking at her helplessly. Therese sweeps her eyes down her body, her full breasts heaving, her skin filmed with sweat. Fernanda, knelt between her legs, watches closely and keeps pressing the toy into her in deep, deliberate strokes.

“Oh, Carol,” Therese murmurs. “Look at you.”

“P-please,” Carol gasps, “Oh, God, please—”

“She is in a state,” grins Fernanda, directing her hooded gaze to Therese. “It must be from watching you come in mouth, _Querida_.” 

Therese shivers, giving Fernanda a teasing glare, “Don’t try to distract me right now.”

“How shall I not? I can still taste you.”

Carol and Therese whimper at the same time; Therese slides her hand across Carol’s chest, toying with a nipple as she asks Fernanda, “Will you like being teased when it’s your turn?”

Fernanda must hit a particularly sensitive spot because Carol jerks, cries out, “Fuck!” pressing her breasts up into Therese’s wandering hand. Therese and Fernanda smirk at each other, and Therese leans down to kiss Carol’s cheek, then her ear, flicking her tongue against it.

“Are you all right, baby?” she whispers.

“Oh, Christ, I—I—”

“Should we stop teasing you? Should we give you what you need?”

“Please!” Carol sobs. “Yes, I—p-please!”

Therese looks at Fernanda again, instructs her, “Move a little faster, but not too hard.”

Fernanda takes her cue at once, and Carol shudders. Therese, still with her body laid out along Carol’s, scoots a little further down so she can take a nipple in her mouth. She lays her open palm on Carol’s diaphragm, and then slides downward, over the rippling muscle of her stomach. In moments, she reaches the apex of Carol’s open thighs, and finds the hard and pulsing point of her clitoris, which she begins to rub—gently.

It doesn’t seem possible that Carol’s body could grow more frantic, more desperate, and yet suddenly, it is. Therese has a fleeting thought of the scarves Fernanda laid out before; thinks how this might be easier if they tied Carol down, but that intoxicating idea will remain a fantasy for the time being. She doesn’t want to constrain Carol. She wants Carol completely, blissfully free.

“Carol, beautiful Carol,” groans Fernanda, running her free hand up and down Carol’s thighs, “I forgot how _wet_ you get like this.”

Carol whimpers, hips shoving forward in desperation. Therese releases her nipple with a pop, looking down, moving her hand so that she can play her fingers around the perimeter of the toy. Fernanda is right. She’s soaked, slick, her thighs drenched in desire. Therese and Fernanda exchange a look of almost conspiratorial glee, and they might as well be having their own conversation, saying, _‘Yes, isn’t she the most exquisite thing you’ve ever touched?’_ and, _‘She is, she’s like a goddess.’ ‘How do we bear it? How does anyone bear the gift of such a woman?’ ‘Why, by being worthy of it, of course. By giving her exactly what she needs.’_

“Touch her, _Querida_ ,” Fernanda says, voice rough with excitement, her eyes like glittering jewels. “I want to make her come with you. And then I want to watch her fuck you.”

Therese’s cunt pulses. What an absolutely splendid idea.

“Just a little harder now,” Therese tells her, moving her fingers back to Carol’s clit and beginning to make swift, tight circles. She looks up at Carol’s face, a rictus of pleasure, eyes rolled back and throat working and lips opening and closing as if she’s trying to speak but can’t. Therese asks her, “Are you nearly there, beautiful?” and Carol gives a jerky nod of her head. Therese tells her, “Look at me, baby.”

It takes a moment; then with apparently monumental effort, Carol does. Their eyes lock.

Therese says, “I can’t wait to feel you inside me.”

Instantly, powerfully, Carol comes. Her whole body seizes, lifting up. Her voice catches on a sob that rises, suddenly, to a scream. Her eyes slam shut again, her hips rock and writhe. Therese keeps stroking her and Fernanda keeps fucking her and together they make her light up like a supernova. The goddess in her most holy state, and Therese and Fernanda her devoted priestesses, worshiping in an ecstasy almost as profound as Carol’s.

She comes down slowly, with many little spurts of renewed pleasure, just the pressure of them touching her enough to keep her going in a seemingly endless ebb and flow. Finally, Therese moves her hand away, and Fernanda lets go of the toy, and then at last Carol starts to calm. Fernanda runs her hands soothingly up and down her thighs, while Therese massages fingers into her hair in a way that makes Carol purr—or would if she weren’t so busy gasping for breath. Whole minutes may pass in the overwhelming joy and pride of watching Carol return to them.

Then, finally, slowly, her eyes flutter open. She looks into Therese’s beaming face; looks down at a grinning Fernanda, and says in a voice hoarse from screaming, “ _Fuck_ …”

Her lovers burst with laughter, Fernanda’s rich and hearty, Therese’s a giggle of delight just before she sweeps in to kiss Carol’s lips. Carol grabs her face in her hands, kissing her hard and then letting her go, saying again with eyes rolling skyward, “Fuck.”

“You’ve found someone worthy of you, Carol,” Fernanda observes happily. “One wouldn’t know it to look at this little thing, but she has you all figured out, hasn’t she?”

This time Carol laughs, looking at Therese in adoration, her sated eyes twinkling with pride and pleasure. “She is a marvel.” Then, looking down at Fernanda. “And it appears you’re just as good at this as you ever were.”

Therese can only think, _‘Yes, she certainly is.’_

Carol arches, stretches, rotates her neck and shoulders til Therese hears the little _pops_ of release. Therese watches the muscles shift under satiny skin, and her mouth waters. When she meets Carol’s eyes again, her lover seems to have come back to herself, and there is sinful promise in her look as she asks, “What now, Darling?”

Therese’s belly flutters. It is quite apparent that in just a few more seconds, she is going to lose all say in the matter. Carol looks next at Fernanda. “You said you wanted to watch?”

Fernanda’s eyes blaze. “Very much.”

“Is that all you want? To watch?”

The beautiful Brazilian’s lips part, and though all night she has been a picture of selflessness, her moments of lust clearly directed toward the sight of Carol or Therese’s pleasure rather than the need for her own, now, something new burns in her expression—something delicious, and needy, and _selfish_. It makes Therese light up with fresh desire, and it makes Carol grin.

Fernanda says, “I am a visitor at this feast, dear Carol. Perhaps you could recommend something to me? Something that will suit… my hosts as well as me?”

“A recommendation,” nods Carol, smirking. “Yes, I can make a recommendation. Come lay down, Fernanda.”

There is something unbearably erotic about Fernanda obeying Carol’s order, sliding forward, relaxing onto her back. As she does it, Carol rises up to her own knees, reaching for Therese and pulling her against her, kissing her. Therese wraps her arms around her shoulders and gives herself over to it, to the command in Carol’s strong hands, to the possessiveness of her soft and hungry mouth. Little whimpers escape her with every brush of Carol’s tongue, every stroke of her fingers—until those fingers grip her waist and turn her.

She hardly knows how it happens, but suddenly she is on her hands and knees. And Carol is behind her. And Fernanda is spread out below, Therese’s hands planted on either side of her warm thighs. The visual, the sensation, spears Therese with excitement. She moans breathlessly, even as Carol leans over her back to whisper in her ear, “Fernanda has been so good to us, hasn’t she, Sweetheart?”

Therese can only nod. Behind her, between her legs, she can feel the hardness of the toy. Her eyes are locked with Fernanda, who watches her with smoldering desire.

Carol whispers in her ear, “I want to watch you, love. I want to watch myself move inside you. And I want to watch you touch Fernanda.” Then, to Fernanda, “Her mouth is incredible.” Fernanda groans. Therese whimpers, burning all over. Carol nuzzles behind hear ear, asking, “Would you like that, Dearest? To show her how incredible your mouth is?”

Therese nods eagerly. She doesn’t even care how lust-drunk she must look in this moment. The merest brush of Carol’s fingers down her spine feels like a lightning strike. The nudge of the toy against her sex feels like an earthquake. Everything is so good and so intense and so… _right_ and she doesn’t want to wait anymore—

Apparently, Carol can sense this, because a moment later Therese feels her hand, positioning the toy against her. Therese is so wet she knows it will be easy going in, and the knowledge that it is inside Carol, too, that Carol will be able to feel every movement in her own body, makes Therese even wetter. But even she is unprepared for the smooth, single thrust of Carol’s thighs—burying it inside her all at once. She makes a choking sound of bliss, dropping forward onto her elbows, face pressing into Fernanda’s stomach as pleasure overwhelms her. Gentle fingers touch her head, slide through her hair, stroking and scratching as she shudders with something that’s just a hairsbreadth shy of an orgasm. Carol holds still, her thighs pressed against Therese’s bottom as she lets her adjust.

“Beautiful girl,” Fernanda coos. “Yes, I’ve had this one myself. It’s intense, isn’t it?”

Therese hits another high of arousal, almost embarrassed by the sharp whine that escapes her.

“Are you all right, Angel?” Carol asks.

“I—I—yes, it’s—oh, _fuck_ …”

Carol chuckles throatily; Therese knows how delighted she is, whenever she can wring curses out of her.

“That’s right, love. I’m going to fuck you now. I’ll start slow, all right? But don’t forget Fernanda.”

The reminder gives Therese a way to focus her overwhelmed body, and with gratitude she lifts her head off the older woman’s stomach, sliding down, coaxing warm thighs apart, and just as Fernanda makes a little sharp sound of anticipation, Therese takes her first, hungry taste.

Oh, God, she’s delicious! She’s so wet and she tastes… so good. Sharp and rich, and like Carol, but different. Carol is a little sweeter, Therese decides, but Fernanda is exquisite in her own right. Her lips are fuller than Carol’s, her clit a little smaller, all of her foreign but somehow familiar at the same time, and when Therese drags the first, throaty groan from her lips, it wakes in her a devouring need—to make her do it again. Therese licks her from bottom to top, a long, slow drag, and then slides her tongue all over Fernanda’s clit.

“ _Puta merda_!” Fernanda cries, hands fisting in Therese’s hair. “Oh—you perfect, perfect girl!”

Therese moans; hears Carol moan behind her; and then, Carol starts to move. Slow at first, and shallow, little nudges that hit like explosions in her cunt. For a moment Therese stills. She doesn’t know how she’s going to do this, how she’s going to concentrate enough to make love to Fernanda while Carol makes love to her, but then Carol’s hands are on her hips, gripping tight, and she says, “Keep going, love. If you stop, so do I.”

Therese nearly sobs, but it’s exactly the incentive she needs. She pulls herself together, and fairly _attacks_ her task, full of desire, full of delight.

She has always loved this. The first time she put her mouth on Carol, it was a revelation. Her only experience with giving pleasure to another had been Richard, whose arousal and orgasm felt so detached from her, as if she was just an object, a method he used to achieve release. She felt no pride in it, got no satisfaction from it. But in the Drake Hotel, Carol made love to her, made her come deeply and powerfully, like an avalanche—and then, Carol watched wide-eyed as Therese slid down her body. Down, between her legs. The first tentative lick through her wetness ripped a cry from her, and Therese had nearly swooned. It was intoxicating. It was mind-boggling. It was… liberation. Giving pleasure to Carol made her free, and she hadn’t known how anyone could experience this once, and not want to do it over and over and over again.

But now, in this room in Paris—as she licks and flicks and sucks, experimenting, trying to discover what Fernanda likes—a whole new dimension of pleasure occurs. Because as she moves, as she searches and explores, Carol’s strokes grow a little longer, a little harder, and the ache between Therese’s legs blooms outward, flooding her thighs and belly and breasts.

It doesn’t take Therese long to find the touches that impact Fernanda most. Carol likes swift wet circles around her clit, but Fernanda likes suction—she shouts a curse when Therese draws her gently into her mouth, building the pressure. Therese moves down to lick inside her, to gather up the spill of her wetness and drag it back to her clit, suckling again. The hands in her hair move to her shoulders, fingernails digging with a sharpness that blends pleasure and pain. Therese did not admit to herself that she was worried about this—worried that she would not be able to make Fernanda feel good, especially after the ecstasy Fernanda gave to her. But now, all her worries evaporate, replaced by a surge of confidence.

She lifts her mouth, meeting Fernanda’s eyes up the length of her undulating body, “What else?” she asks. In that moment Carol thrusts into her harder, and she nearly collapses, gasping and moaning and forcing herself to open her eyes again and pant, “What else do you need?” 

“Good girl,” Carol praises, but however imperious she means to sound, it is belied by the breathlessness of her voice, by the moan caught in her throat, and Therese knows that she is experiencing her own pleasure, each thrust of the toy echoing in her own sex. The thought is overwhelming. 

Fernanda groans, “Oh, your fingers. Please, _Querida_ , your fingers. Two of them.”

Therese worries that she won’t be able to hold herself up with just one hand—even with two she can barely manage it, the barrage of Carol’s thrusts making her tremble violently—but she is determined. She braces herself on a forearm, and with her other hand, slides two fingers inside. Muscles grip her at once, tight and silky. Fernanda wails, and Therese starts crooking her fingers, a ‘come hither’ gesture as she takes the hard pearl of Fernanda’s clit back into her mouth. 

“Oh, God, Carol!” Fernanda cries out. “Oh, you were right. Oh, she’s incredible! How do those little fingers of hers feel like _so much_?”

Carol laughs raggedly, says, “You should feel her cunt right now. She’s so tight I can barely move. I do wonder which of you is going to come first.”

Therese knows a challenge when she hears it, and with a growl of hungry determination, she thrusts harder. She uses her mouth to suck and her tongue to stroke and she rubs a rough and swollen spot inside Fernanda, and she _does not stop_ , until suddenly—

Fernanda is _loud_. 

She’s louder than Carol. Louder than Therese. For a second Therese almost stops, afraid she’s hurt her, but then she hears Carol gleefully announce, “Vocal as ever. Keep going, Angel, she’s not even halfway done.”

With renewed confidence, Therese continues. Carol is right. The second climax comes hard on the heels of the first, Fernanda bucking and thrashing like a wild bronco, and when the second seems just to be fading she whimpers, “More—more!” and Therese slides another finger inside, lifts her mouth, pumps into her hard and fast until, screaming, she comes again.

It is incredible. It is staggering. Therese watches her in amazement, distantly aware that Carol has paused the thrusting of her own hips so that she can watch, too. Therese feels the older woman’s sex pulsing around her fingers, and wonders if she should go for a fourth—but a moment later, Fernanda collapses. She lies on the bed with a hand covering her eyes, gasping for breath. And then her gasping turns to laughter, to giggling hysterics that make Therese’s whole face light up with pride and joy and blushing delight.

“ _Meu Deus_!” Fernanda gasps. “ _Oh, Therese, você é tão boa nisso_!” Another burst of giggles. “ _Você me faz esquecer inglês_!”

Therese, panting for breath, mouth smeared with Fernanda’s wetness, doesn’t care that she can’t understand what she’s saying—she only cares that she has made her feel good. There is a pride in it almost as powerful as the first time she made Carol come, for though she knows she could never be in love with Fernanda, she also knows that this vibrant, kind, electrifyingly beautiful woman deserves all the pleasure in the world.

“You still with us, _Carinho_?” asks Carol teasingly, the pet name sounding delicious in her mouth. “Shall we give you a moment to recover?”

Fernanda laughs again, shakes her head, finally moves her hand and opens eyes that are smoky with the aftereffects of her release. She sticks her tongue between her teeth, playful as a child. Then, with a sultry grin, she slides her fingers into Therese’s hair again, scratching at her scalp til Therese purrs.

“Oh, no,” Fernanda says, “Do not stop on my account. Your girl has been so good to me, Carol. I think she deserves a reward, no?”

Carol, whose hips have been still this whole time, now nudges them forward. Therese gasps. Carol sighs with bliss, and says, “I completely agree.” Another hard thrust. Carol groans, and Therese does, too.

“Can I touch her?” Fernanda asks—and how she has the mental faculties to remember their agreement is both a marvel and a relief. At Carol’s permission, she says, “Bring her closer to me.”

Like a rag doll, helpless between them, Therese feels herself shuffled forward, until her knees are planted either side of Fernanda’s hips, and her face is level with Fernanda’s face, and just as Carol starts up her rhythm, Fernanda pulls her down into a kiss, licking into her mouth, seeking the taste of herself on Therese’s tongue. 

The sight must galvanize Carol, because all at once she goes from slow, measured thrusts to a deep, hard fucking that makes Therese choke with pleasure. Moaning, whining, she kisses Fernanda back. She digs her hands into the bed and plants her knees as hard as she can, and still she feels like every stroke of Carol’s body tosses her about like a leaf.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Carol gasps. “Oh, God, love you feel so good inside. So tight. Oh!”

Therese can only imagine what Carol must see from her own vantage, the arousal of watching herself fuck Therese as Therese shudders in Fernanda’s arms. Therese can feel her own sex, flexing and pulsing as pleasure mounts inside her. Every time the toy pulls out, she whimpers with loss; every time it pushes into her again, she keens at the sharp, delicious fullness. And all the while Fernanda kisses her—her lips, her jaw, her neck, teeth scraping and tongue flicking. It’s so much, too much, it—it—

“Carol,” she sobs, “Carol, _please_!”

Instantly, Carol bends over her, drapes herself across Therese’s back and pushes her face into her neck, against her face, her ear—

“Darling,” Carol pants. “Are you—is this—are you nearly there?”

There’s a needy tremor in Carol’s voice. There’s a slight unevenness to her driving hips. Therese realizes with a moan that Carol is close, too—that the pressure of the toy pushing inside her as she pushes inside Therese has brought her to the brink. But selfless as she is, she doesn’t want to let go until Therese has found her own pleasure.

Therese whimpers, “I—I just—I need—”

Before she can finish stumbling through the words, Carol says, “Help her, Fernanda,” and an instant later there are fingers between her legs, on her clit. She squeaks; shudders; looks down at the older woman, whose eyes shine with excitement.

“This, _Querida_?” Fernanda asks, as her fingers start rubbing firmly, sparks alighting under her touch. “Do you need this?” 

“Yes!” Therese gasps with relief. Behind her, Carol starts thrusting harder, starts crying out, clearly on the very edge of her control. Therese feels everything closing in, sharper, tighter, focused, her sex throbbing and her clit pulsing and in an agony of need she cries out, “Please! Oh, God, please! Carol—Fernanda—please, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”

She comes— _hard_. She comes so hard she loses control of her limbs. Her elbows buckle, her face falling forward against Fernanda’s chest. Her thighs start shaking so violently that only the strength of Carol’s grip keeps her on her knees. Her cunt pulses in deep, crushing waves of pleasure and relief.

Behind her, Carol keens. And then her hips lock in place, shivering, and Therese knows she’s coming, too. Just the thought of it makes her own orgasm catch a new wave, because there is nothing in the universe, in all of space and time, as good as the knowledge of Carol’s release. 

Whatever the beginning or end of her pleasure, or Carol’s pleasure, the next few minutes are a fugue of pulsing and trembling and gasping for air. Therese, still with her face pushing into Fernanda’s neck, takes great gulping breaths of the rich, sweet perfume that she first noticed at the party a few nights ago. She can feel Carol’s belly and thighs, sticking to her skin, and it is all so debauched and carnal that she finds herself grinning with happiness.

Finally, groaning, Carol whispers, “Can I pull out, Angel?”

Therese nods against Fernanda, and then whines sharply as the toy withdraws. A moment later, she hears Carol’s whimper, followed by Carol collapsing beside them on the bed. Despite the weakness in her limbs, Therese manages to lift herself and crawl the few inches to her lover. Carol, lying on her side, takes her in her arms, and Fernanda, turning onto her own side, holds her from behind. Two sets of hands stroke across her body, slow and soothing. Sandwiched between them, Therese feels a flood of warmth and comfort and safety.

Then, suddenly, Fernanda starts chuckling. With a huff of amusement, Carol asks, “What’s so funny?”

Fernanda kisses Therese’s shoulder, squeezes Carol’s hip, and says merrily, “Oh, it’s just—I’ve never been so happy to have guests!”

And at that, all three of them erupt in laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to my Brazilian readers for the Portuguese. I did the best I could with my knowledge of Spanish and Google Translate!
> 
> Puta merda! Holy shit!  
> Meu Deus! Você é tão bom nisso! Você me faz esquecer inglês! My God! You’re so good at that! You make me forget English!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carol and Therese return to New York, but Fernanda will always be with them.

A part of Therese worried that the Madison Avenue apartment would feel small after the excitement of Paris. But as she wakes up in her own bed the Saturday afternoon after their return, she feels nothing but comfort and peace. They got in yesterday, but jet lag has them both disoriented. They settled down for a nap a couple of hours ago, knowing they’d have to be up by six, when Harge is dropping off Rindy. They’re both eager to see her, to give her her presents and tell her about Paris. That is, the parts that can be told.

That reminds Therese—she’s got to try to develop at least some pictures before Rindy arrives. She glances over at Carol, who lies sprawled on her stomach, hair fanned out on the pillow, dead asleep. She is a vision of loveliness, and Therese is careful not to wake her as she climbs out of bed, grabs her robe, and pads out the room.

She dropped off all her dozens of rolls of film in the darkroom last night. Luckily, she had the foresight to label them, so it’s pretty easy to find ones that may interest Rindy. Pictures of the city with its shops and streets and river. Pictures of Carol standing in front of the Eiffel Tower. Pictures of the countryside, and Madame Bisset’s little restaurant. Pictures of their view from the George V balcony. 

Therese sets to work, humming softly to herself, a song she heard at Fernanda’s party. She picks three rolls to develop, and works slowly and diligently, each image appearing like magic as she turns it in the chemicals. All these years later, and Therese still takes a childlike delight in developing her pictures—something recently buoyed by Rindy’s growing interest in the art. Therese already has her eye on a camera she wants to get her for her birthday.

“You’ll spoil her,” Carol had said, when she showed her the department catalogue with the advertisement for the camera in question.

“Like you spoil me?” Therese had asked her, grinning.

Now, she grins again, remembering. She hums her song and thinks of how Carol spoiled her in Paris. The gifts, the food, the _time_ with her—that was the most beautiful of all. After their night with Fernanda, there were kisses goodbye, warm, happy smiles, promises to stay in touch—but they did not see her again before they left Paris. They spent the last two days in a cocoon of privacy, of happiness, of just them. To be alone with Carol, to be near her, to talk and touch and revel in the intimacy of what they share—it’s worth more than any Cartier necklace.

Therese is developing the last couple of photos when she hears the sounds of Carol in the house. A moment later there’s a little knock on the door, and Carol calls in, “Dearest? Are you working?”

Once, years ago, Carol accidentally came in as Therese was developing photos, and ruined a batch of them with a rude shard of light. Since then, she has been almost paranoid in her determination not to repeat the mistake.

“Yes!” Therese calls. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

“Do you want tea?”

“Yes, please!”

She listens as Carol walks away down the hall, and smiles. She turns back to her pan of chemicals, turning over the last photo in the tray, and stops in surprise. Somehow, she didn’t realize what this roll of film contained, and she gazes down at it in a bloom of joy. It’s from that night. In it, Carol and Fernanda lie sprawled in the messy sheets. They are naked, legs tangled, laughing. Carol’s head is tipped back; Fernanda is grinning at the camera. They look happy, their delight and comfort with each other leaping out. Therese remembers kneeling at the foot of the bed as she took the photo; remembers them teasing her to come back to them.

A few minutes later, Therese finds Carol in the kitchen, pouring hot water into the tea with her back turned to Therese. 

“How are the pictures, Darling?” she asks. She turns around and brings two steaming mugs over to the breakfast bar, and pauses in surprise when she sees the photograph lying there. Therese grins up at her, amused when color floods Carol’s cheeks. “You troublemaker!” Carol chastises her. She sets the mugs down and sits across from Therese, turning the photo so she can look at it properly. It’s still a little damp from the chemicals. She looks down at it for a long moment, warmth in her gaze. When she looks at Therese again, that warmth is infused with pride. “Have you any idea how talented you are?”

Therese blinks. She wasn’t expecting this.

Carol says, “Any other photographer could take a picture like this, and it would come off as bawdy, even pornographic. But you’ve made it a work of art.”

Therese smiles. She reaches across the table to toy with one of the bracelets on Carol’s wrist, “It _was_ a work of art,” she says softly.

Carol gives her a soft, adoring look. She turns her wrist so their fingers slide together, and then checks the time over the stove. She says, “Rindy will be here in an hour. We might want to get dressed.”

“Mmhmm,” says Therese peacefully, but makes no move to get up. Neither does Carol. They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, the picture between them, their fingers entwined.

Carol asks softly, “You’re still glad it happened?”

Therese’s smile turns naughty. She tugs at the emerald-studded ring on Carol’s finger. “Of course. Aren’t you?”

Carol blushes. Says, “Yes. I… it was… incredible. _You_ were incredible.”

“But?” asks Therese, gently, knowingly.

A moment’s hesitation. Carol watches their fingers. Therese thinks she could be content to stare into Carol’s eyes ceaselessly, but there are times when Carol needs the privacy of a diverted gaze, in order to process her feelings. It’s all right, though. She always comes back.

“I just… I suppose I was wondering… whether… it’s something you’d want to do again?”

Therese can’t help her little laugh of surprise. “Why?” she asks. “Have you got other former lovers you’d like to introduce me to?”

Carol grimaces in exaggerated distaste, which makes Therese laugh again. Sometimes, when Carol is feeling shy and uncertain, too much gentleness only compounds it. Sometimes she needs to be teased, to be poked, to be reminded that she is just a woman, and that she is the woman Therese loves.

“Baby, look at me,” Therese coaxes.

Finally, cautiously, Carol does. There are those eyes she loves, those cool gray depths that captured her across a department store, and have not released her since.

Therese says, “Who knows what will happen in life? What good is it to speak in absolutes? To say, absolutely not, or absolutely yes? But if you’re really asking: do I need that, do I want more of that, am I dissatisfied? Then the answer is _no_ , Carol.” Her lover still looks a little uncertain, but there is a beautiful happiness in her eyes as she grips Therese’s fingers tighter. Therese says, “I think you’re always a little afraid that you’re going to lose me. I think you’re always a little afraid that you’re not good enough for me, that you don’t deserve me, that I’ll leave.” The gray eyes widen. Therese has hit her mark. She watches tears gather in those eyes, making them even wider and brighter. Therese brings Carol’s hand up to her mouth, kissing her inner wrist with a devotion that sears her from the inside. “Don’t you know, Carol? Fernanda was Paris. But you are the entire world to me.” 

The tears spill over from Carol’s eyes, just two or three, but her smile is beautiful and tremulous and moved. After a moment she wipes the tears away, laughing wryly, “And here I thought we were just talking about sex!”

Therese giggles. She stands up, going around the bar to Carol’s chair. Carol reaches for her hips, and she slides into her lap, smooth as anything. They kiss.

“What shall we do with this photograph?” Therese asks.

Carol looks down at it again, pensively, but her smile is warm. She touches a finger to Fernanda’s face in the image, and says, “Keep it somewhere safe, I think? Perhaps in the box with those _other photographs_?”

Therese pinks delightedly, thinking of the two dozen or so photos that have accumulated over the years, mementos of their lovemaking. Yes, this image will fit in quite well with them. She turns back to Carol, tips her head back, and kisses her again. It starts slow, adoring, but to both of their surprise it begins after a moment to deepen. Therese feels goosebumps spread across her skin as Carol’s tongue dips into her mouth. She moans, and Carol moans, and Carol holds her tighter, hands stroking and massaging her back as arousal takes over them both.

Therese wrenches her mouth away, gasps when Carol’s lips instantly go for her collarbone. “Carol,” she says, “We—we—Rindy will be here.”

Carol keeps kissing her, nibbling at her. Her hand slides up her thigh, under her skirt, toying with the edge of her underwear. Therese squeaks.

“We—we don’t have time,” she says weakly.

Carol chuckles, dragging her mouth down Therese’s chest, biting at her breast through her shirt. Therese shudders, hands sliding up, into her hair, which is still messy from their nap.

“Perhaps not,” Carol concedes, reaching under Therese’s shirt to palm her breast, to tweak a nipple. “But I do wonder, _Querida_ : what would Fernanda say?”

Therese releases a breathless laugh, head tipped back, her hips rocking against the hand that’s now between her thighs. Then, bringing her head down again, she grabs Carol’s face. She pulls her lips to hers, kissing her deep and frantic. And with a heart full of love and joy and need, she answers, “Fernanda would say… hurry!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story began as a whimsical anecdote in another fic. But everybody responded so delightfully to the idea of Fernanda that it was impossible not to bring her to life. And now, 23,000 words later, we've reached our close. Will Fernanda ever visit New York? Will Carol and Therese return some day to Paris? Will our ladies cross paths (or beds) again? Who knows? But I hope you have enjoyed this ride as much as I have, and that on your worst days you imagine Fernanda giving you bedroom eyes and calling you pet names, which is something we'd all be lucky to experience!


End file.
